Although it did my soul a world of good catching up with my BFF over the phone it nearly killed the rest of me. I couldn't tell you exactly how I got that drunk (OK, that's kind of obvious) or why I stayed up so long but come rising time I was a wreck.
I figured it was Monday and despite being stuck on a double it would be slow and my walking-dead status would go barely noticed. Au contraire, we were under staffed and very busy. We ran out of glasses, of silverware... 30 minute ticket times for burgers, I had a new serving partner - who is an idiot - and 35 covers all at the same time glaring at me in that way that says "where is my food you dumb bitch?" Compounded by the fact that was simultaneously still drunk and hung-over, I was doing lunch the hard way.
I managed to run into every corner, knock into every chair, pour wine onto the table instead of the glass, dump whole loaves of bread on the floor and drop a tray onto another server's head (don't ask I don't even know how I managed that one). After 5 hours of hell I walked with a measly 67 dollars. My head still hurt. I was starving and now terribly craving a burger - of which I sold probably 15 of the previous shift - go figure.
My meager hour and half break was spent with the in-law, my man, and my neighbor. Instead of that burger I got the left overs from their boring ham, brie and apple panini but - god help me - my man made me a spicy bloody mary. I was feeling better already. (The glass and half of wine helped too).
I literally ran back to work (damn, I gotta start doing some cardio!) to do it all over again. Dinner was really no easier than lunch and karma has a way of sneaking back up on you.. . Or, rather, a way of sending someone else to hit you in the face with a large tray of food. (Thanks, Evan).
6 and a half hours (and 25 dollars) later I took myself out for a burger and a bloody. Both were delicious.
Today I may have crossed the threshold from being a functional drunk to alcoholic. Oh well, I guess all there is to do is poor myself another drink. Which I did promptly.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Love Letter to the Minneapolis Food Scene
Earlier this week we actually had some good ethnic food; a giant bowl of phở that warmed my heart as much as it did my belly. We also had a gloriously scented jasmine tea and a ho-hum bánh mì sandwich but it was the best Asian food we’d had in months in a kitchen other than our own. In a place where a firm percentage of the population is Vietnamese you’d think it not be the challenge that it is to have good, honest food prepared simply with the fresh ingredients that I know must be here. Alas, they seem to focus more on the sale of Sysco based GI-Chinese food that has failed us at every try.
With the success of our bowl of phở I was reminded of the many ethnic haunts we so regularly visited in Minneapolis. Never more than a bike ride away my craving for Thai or the like was quick to be satiated. Sadly, these days, there’s a lot of risk involved (Will this place be any good? Oh please let this place be good!) in addition to a journey that requires the commitment of time, a ferry or long winding bridge to somewhere unknown – typically, the trip requires all three.
Never were the (hunger) pangs of home sickness greater than today when I received my issue of Metro’s food issue. Although small in size, the food scene in Minneapolis is large in heart and diversity. I miss it deeply.
Having moved to a city whose culinary identity is vastly cliché and often poorly executed, I miss the authenticity and commitment to good food done well. I miss the fine food and friends I had come to take for granted in Minneapolis and St. Paul.
You’re in my heart, Twin Cities, but –unfortunately for me – not in my stomach.
With the success of our bowl of phở I was reminded of the many ethnic haunts we so regularly visited in Minneapolis. Never more than a bike ride away my craving for Thai or the like was quick to be satiated. Sadly, these days, there’s a lot of risk involved (Will this place be any good? Oh please let this place be good!) in addition to a journey that requires the commitment of time, a ferry or long winding bridge to somewhere unknown – typically, the trip requires all three.
Never were the (hunger) pangs of home sickness greater than today when I received my issue of Metro’s food issue. Although small in size, the food scene in Minneapolis is large in heart and diversity. I miss it deeply.
Having moved to a city whose culinary identity is vastly cliché and often poorly executed, I miss the authenticity and commitment to good food done well. I miss the fine food and friends I had come to take for granted in Minneapolis and St. Paul.
You’re in my heart, Twin Cities, but –unfortunately for me – not in my stomach.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
What do you tell a woman with 2 black eyes?
… Nothing you haven’t told her twice before.
I have been walking around as the punch line to this joke for 5 days now and no one has said one word to me. Not one. Not my managers, nor my co-workers, nor anyone on the street. Not a single soul.
If I were in the Midwest dozens of people would have inquired; asked what happened, suggested I move into a shelter, offered me a place to stay with the assumption someone was beating me . . .
For the record: a freak baking accident where I dropped a heavy ball jar on my own nose. But still, not one inquiry?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Why Can’t You Get Along with Anyone?
I’ve been called “difficult” several times since our arrival here, particularly by real estate agents. It is not to say others haven’t thought the same elsewhere but the term “difficult” seems to be the term they fancy instead of calling someone a bitch. Additionally, I guess their idea of “reasonable” is different than mine and for that matter their idea of “move-in ready” is significantly different than our idea up north too but that’s hardly where the differences stop and start, but I digress.
After having looked at some 80 or so properties we finally decided on where we currently live. Our decision was in great part out of pure exhaustion: tired of looking, of negotiating, of having phone calls not returned… so here we were signing a lease with a pinched real estate agent that owned our soon to be home on Bourbon street. We were later warned she too was “difficult” but we’ve since found that out for ourselves.
2 weeks back we had a cold spell so we turned on the heater, discovering that it didn’t work properly. She argued with the Mr. about its working condition and why we would even have our heater on yet to which he replied, “I pay for it, what business is it of yours when I turn it on.” After much debate she finally agreed to have a repairman come take a look.
Upon her arrival her judgment and disdain was palpable although it wasn’t until after the heater repairman concluded their diagnostic that the disagreement ensued. (Fortunately, they had figured out the issue; according to Brigitte, there was no problem, in her opinion the heater was turning off because the apartment was up to temperature. There was no explaining to her that the apartment was 60 degrees and the heater was cranked to 85 …)
In her departure I brought up 2 other issues: the motor on the fan in the bathroom stopped working and the rosemary in the backyard was dying. It was then she begun lecturing and chastising me. For anyone who knows me they know I don’t take kindly to be talked at and I have a particular disdain for a demeaning tone.
Although I had agreed to care for the yard (grooming) despite receiving no compensation I concured with her statement that I had expressed an interest in maintaining the yard. (On our last chat however she had lectured me on watering the yard so which was it, am I to care for the yard or not?. Anyway, I stated very clearly that there was no way I was going to pay for soil replenishment, fertilizer or anything else that required out of pocket expenses on my end for her plants in a shared courtyard. Period. So, in punishment, she’s going to send in “her lady” who will severely cut back all of the plants. She does this twice a year and does nothing more to condition the plants, nor does she provide any on-going yard maintenance. She just whacks it down twice a year. So be it. Then there was the issue of the bathroom fan seizing up.
Instead of repairing it she askd, “Can’t you just open a window?”
“Brigitte, with it getting cold out I would prefer NOT to open the window.” I mean, really, the window is in the shower and the bathroom is all of 3 square feet, would you want to open the window?
I guess since she saw her side of the “conversation” as a lose-lose so she thought it an opportune time to discuss the "fact" that we're using the middle room as "storage." I told her it was none of her business what we did with the house…that I'm busy and haven't had a chance to figure it all out/decorate... she wanted (demanded numerous times in fact) to know what our "plan" was (Were we going to open a restaurant, rent a storage facility...?) and I told her it was none of her business and then told her she wasn't my mother so back off. My plan was, as I explained to her, to return her property to her in the same --if not better-- condition than we received it. She was concerned we were ruining the floor. . . How you stupid cow-pig? How would we being ruining the floor by having things on it?
"Do we not pay our rent?" I asked. "Do we not pay it in a timely fashion every month?" To both she responded yes yet was quick with a “but…” Then she berated me for the volume I was listening to PUBLIC FUCKING RADIO on the computer while I was doing my housework. She said she could hear it next door and "if someone was there..."
"Well, there isn’t anyone there now is there?" I added, "have you received any complaints? You see, we have wonderful relationships with our neighbors so I'm sure if there were a problem they'd say something to us."
I offered that if she were unhappy with our tenancy she could sever the lease and we'll move on. No, she said, she didn't want that but then complained that we were taking up more space than we should - with the Vespa and pots outside, etc. "All things," I pointed out "you, pre-approved prior to our tenancy."
Oh I hate the bitch and I thought the Mr. was gonna be mad at me but his only response was this: “Why can’t you get along with anyone?” That’s great, I thought, I stand up for myself and I’m the difficult one. Story of my fucking life. And then there was today . . .
I’d like to say it ended all sweet and she apologized but she came with her guns a blazing – actually more like quivery face and finger a waggin’. It’s not that I was likely to apologize (because I wouldn’t – I did nothing wrong) but I didn’t even have a chance to play nice, she just started right in. She literally came inside and started in on me; she was within 12 inches of my face with her finger in my in my eyeball telling me off and threatening to give us 30 days to move. I told her she needed to back up out of my face and step outside. I demanded it 3 or 4 times before she finally did.
I told her, "I’m standing here gargling in my residence minding my own business, how dare you come in here at speak to me like that. Now, step back and go outside where we can continue the conversation in a civilized manner as soon as (the Mr.) gets here.” She continued to try and argue with me even as she backed out. I shut the door on her not saying another word until my man arrived.
When he arrived she says, “I just had another lovely conversation with your wife.”
We tit and tat about some bullshit with the pots and some plants – petty bullshit really – but clearly she went home yesterday all worked up and tried to find something “legit” for her to berate me about. I again reiterated, this time directing it to the Mr. that I was not going to have someone in my face yelling at me. I re-enacted how she was behaving. The Mr. broke us up with a “now, ladies…” and I marched back inside. I didn’t slam a single door or blare my blasted public radio but I was seething. Once again I was being vilified for not tolerating someone else’s bad behavior. I guess I really infuriate people when they can’t win an argument with me. Maybe I am a little combative (OK, I am) but I will not be belittled and talked down to. Maybe I’m a little full of it, maybe I can’t get along with anyone?
She was kinder with the Mr. but still difficult – still argumentative and mentioned giving us 60 days to move. Good man that he is, my man made it clear that if SHE wanted us to move it would not be at our financial expense – if we moved she would be severing the lease and the penalties/losses would be hers and not ours. She then reconsidered, “can we be friends?”
“I don’t know, can we?” he joked. They shook hands and agreed that she and I would never again speak.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
To pee or not to pee
As you can tell from my recent posts, after months of active searching, I finally secured a position. Finally. Don’t get too excited –I’m not—it’s as a fucking server. What I haven’t told you is how I ended up at this joint.
Le restaurant (not so cleverly) is really Le Meritage. After several interviews (see Another One Bites the Dust I & II) the chef offers me a spot on the team much to the chagrin of the cunt-faced manager who clearly disliked me. Come to think of it, I wasn’t so much offered the job but welcomed aboard as if there weren’t options (or a choice) on my part. In kind of a whirl wind I was shuffled to a terminal in a hallway to fill out an online application then into the HR manager’s office to sign away my life in the way of a background check and drug screening.
Although I’m a pretty good girl all considering, I find both a background checks (and some check your credit too – WTF!) and drug tests extremely intrusive. As a former manager I don’t frankly care what people do off the clock. On the clock is a different story but do you think, for example, the occasional marijuana consumption would actually impact someone’s ability to wait tables, cook a steak, or wash a dish? That’s right folks, all this hoop-jumping is for the great pleasure of severing food on a plate. Give me a fucking break. During my 2-hour stint at the clinic there were a handful of actually druggies and problem consumers parading in and out of the place. Here was one conversation:
Random 20-something black dude, "Hey, can I ask you a question."
Me, "Sure, shoot."
"Uh, I had a couple of drinks before work will they be able to tell?"
Me, "depends on what they're testing for."
him, "awe, shit."
Me, "awe shit maybe."
(Background conversation: breathalyzer test)
Me, "Dude, you're having a breath test?"
"Fuck, I dunno. What's that mean?"
Me, "Did you have an accident?"
"Fuck no!" "Well, it wasn't my fault."
There were a few other actual druggies that came in for regular screenings, a cold frigin’ nurse who practically ignored everyone and then there was the dude who nearly mislabeled the “tamper proof” containers that contained my blessed pee. So if the question is to pee or not to pee well I guess my answer was to pee cuz’ hey, I needed the job.
During my stay waiting to pee it was sunny our while I was trapped in one of a dozen of versions of hell. This one: a boring room with intermittently retards and druggies coming by to also piss in a cup and a blaring television parked on Fox news (more retards). I’d like to ad the folks that worked there weren’t all that bright either (hence the whole labeling near-snafu)). 2 hours and 2 liters of water the sun went behind dark clouds, I peed and I spent the next 30 minutes riding my bike home in the pouring rain. Totally fitting. In the meantime I was offered a position where I am currently at.
Having already gone to the trouble of peeing in the cup and all – and I actually preferred Meritage as the surroundings, food and wine were -hell, I might have actually learned something- I told my current employer I had another offer and needed a few days to consider. What I also needed was what kind of hours I’d be scheduled and at what pay; thus far they had been extremely elusive. And then I waited for 5 days.
At 4:45 on the 5th day the HR gal from Le Meritage left a message that declared I had passed on all counts and to give her a call by 5 or during business hours the next day. As it was 5:15 by the time I got the message I called the following day, and the next, and the next. I also tried to call the manager. No message was returned. As a last attempt I e-mailed the chef. He was, after all, my first point of contact and he is the man in charge of the entire food & beverage program. Here’s what I wrote:
Chef Farrell:
Good afternoon. I read your review last week; congratulations to you and your staff.
I trust you are very busy so I'll get to the point: I have been unable to touch base with Ms. Smith regarding orientation, training and scheduling. Cindy has received confirmation on my background check and screening but I do not yet have a start date nor have my scheduling inquiries been addressed.
While I understand the protocol of the training regimen and that shifts may change due to the demands of business, the number of "scheduled shifts" for a typical work week has not been clearly outlined. I am certainly eager to join your team; however, for my own financial stability it is necessary that I have some comprehension of the base hourly commitment. Since last we spoke, I have been offered a position that guarantees 7-8 shifts per week and, while it is my preference to be a part of your organization, I need to move forward in my decision for employment.
Thank you for your time.
Again, there was no response. After waiting one more day I contacted the GM from the other place and accepted the position. It took several months and more than a dozen interviews to land this gig so I figured, despite my apprehension (rightly deserved by the way), I oughtta get back to work and finally start making some money.
P.S. In case you were wondering, I hate my job.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Job, Day 2:
So I punch in for my 6:15 shift and my trainer is nowhere to be found. Sometime after the scheduled in-time she’s on the floor but not yet changed into uniform. She’s busy venting about the boyfriend. She proceeds to tell me it’s an awful day for me to be working with her because she’s not in a good mood, not in the mood for it, and they have a party so I won’t even learn anything. Well she was right about me not learning anything.
In retrospect maybe I did learn something. Let’s review:
• My trainer speaks Italian (because she lived there), some French and a little German so she likes to talk to foreigners to practice.
• My trainer is an awesome beverage sales person, if she says so herself.
• My trainer doesn’t follow most of the rules – but I should. Whatever those rules happen to be; I wouldn’t know because she and her partner actually exhibited very few of the standard protocols.
• My trainer used to manage there.
• My trainer can eat bread all night there but apparently eating butter with that bread is a fire-able offense.
• The chef is a yeller.
• The manager is a greasy haired slovenly dressed woman who also likes to yell.
• We’re not supposed to leave a tray on the tray jack; that’s one of the MOD’s pet peeves. I learned that when she snapped at me, otherwise known as the first time she talked to me.
• My co-workers are nice but are both LAZY and sloppy.
• Latin dishwashers are all the same – everywhere.
• I hate my job.
Truthfully, it took everything in me to not walk out. It was simply the most unprofessional rag-tag bullshit I’ve experienced in decades. It is the worst training program I’ve ever gone through. The “team” does whatever they want whenever they want to and unless you are un-liked it’s mostly tolerated. I will likely be un-liked by the cool kids because I didn’t hit it off with my trainer. She’s nice but if she put even as much energy into actually training me as she put into telling me how badly she did train me (“but I swear, I’m usually a really good trainer; I used to be the training manager here.”) I might have actually learned something. The bad experience was not reserved just for today; it was not just a fluke.
Yesterday, I personally witnessed 14 customers walk out the door because of the hosts’ attitude. They couldn’t be bothered to invite them in to the bar for a drink while they waited for the table. The standard response was “it’ll be 30 minutes for a table,” when really it was more like 10 – tables just needed to be reset. I haven’t seen one real professional there in any capacity. Every pork chop was burned (the chime was totally blackened presumably because it was too much work to cover the bone with a little foil), every plate had slop and finger prints all over it. The asparagus was sprayed with baking spray and what the menu merchandised as “wood fire grilled” is totally gas; the sauces were squiggled from a squeeze bottle, and every single plate presentation was circa 1980 – at best. Menus were dirty, the staff was greasy, decorative shit on the wall were broken, and the kitchen was filthy.
In retrospect maybe I did learn something. Let’s review:
• My trainer speaks Italian (because she lived there), some French and a little German so she likes to talk to foreigners to practice.
• My trainer is an awesome beverage sales person, if she says so herself.
• My trainer doesn’t follow most of the rules – but I should. Whatever those rules happen to be; I wouldn’t know because she and her partner actually exhibited very few of the standard protocols.
• My trainer used to manage there.
• My trainer can eat bread all night there but apparently eating butter with that bread is a fire-able offense.
• The chef is a yeller.
• The manager is a greasy haired slovenly dressed woman who also likes to yell.
• We’re not supposed to leave a tray on the tray jack; that’s one of the MOD’s pet peeves. I learned that when she snapped at me, otherwise known as the first time she talked to me.
• My co-workers are nice but are both LAZY and sloppy.
• Latin dishwashers are all the same – everywhere.
• I hate my job.
Truthfully, it took everything in me to not walk out. It was simply the most unprofessional rag-tag bullshit I’ve experienced in decades. It is the worst training program I’ve ever gone through. The “team” does whatever they want whenever they want to and unless you are un-liked it’s mostly tolerated. I will likely be un-liked by the cool kids because I didn’t hit it off with my trainer. She’s nice but if she put even as much energy into actually training me as she put into telling me how badly she did train me (“but I swear, I’m usually a really good trainer; I used to be the training manager here.”) I might have actually learned something. The bad experience was not reserved just for today; it was not just a fluke.
Yesterday, I personally witnessed 14 customers walk out the door because of the hosts’ attitude. They couldn’t be bothered to invite them in to the bar for a drink while they waited for the table. The standard response was “it’ll be 30 minutes for a table,” when really it was more like 10 – tables just needed to be reset. I haven’t seen one real professional there in any capacity. Every pork chop was burned (the chime was totally blackened presumably because it was too much work to cover the bone with a little foil), every plate had slop and finger prints all over it. The asparagus was sprayed with baking spray and what the menu merchandised as “wood fire grilled” is totally gas; the sauces were squiggled from a squeeze bottle, and every single plate presentation was circa 1980 – at best. Menus were dirty, the staff was greasy, decorative shit on the wall were broken, and the kitchen was filthy.
Today I almost . . .
Today I almost became a bartender. After heavy consideration I thought it a bad idea - a really bad idea. For a grand sum of $8-8.50/hr the responsibility of supervising far more experienced and tenured high-volume bartenders seemed a joke. Why bother humiliating myself? I should mention my man works at the same place so why risk humiliating him too? To be kind, I wouldn’t make for a good high-volume bartender and this place does 500 – 1000 covers a day in season. I really hope I don't close the door for good by passing on the position (they were "just trying" to get me into the organization to see how we jived and maybe –just maybe—it would turn into something else) but I think I would have only made myself look like a fool. I haven’t bartended for like a decade and I was only OK at it then. (My motto was if you didn’t know what went in your drink than you shouldn’t be drinking it; aka: I wore a tight t-shirt and sold a lot of beer, vodka tonics, etc.) I can't remember what goes into cocktails and I don't even like making my own drinks - I like having them made for me. I sucked it up though and made one pre-work drink while I wrote a draft of my refusal e-mail. This sucks.
My life sucks.
I hope your life is going better.
My life sucks.
I hope your life is going better.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Cheers to that.
Well my orientation and first training shift are officially over. I’ll have to pause a moment because I need a drink. A big tall double-strong drink before I go any further.
OK, much better.
It was neither my worst nor best experience but let’s just say train wreck bears a striking resemblance to their training program and their whole way of doing things. For down south I presume its status quo. Well that’s what happens when the owner promotes his little girl to AGM. You know like, she’s like worked practically like every position and, ya know, like worked her way up…she’s been managing 1 year now ( of her whole 25 years of life) and she couldn’t even tell you what the training wage (aka minimum wage) is. She’s like, ya know, dumb.
It sucks to be treated like a subordinate (Oh, that’s right, I AM a subordinate) when you know you are more talented, more qualified than your superiors. But that’s neither here nor there. I am what I am. For now.
The staff was really pretty nice a great deal of them are new and barely knew more than us (there’s Tommy, the 21 one year old dudette from Florida that I’m training with). I can see why they’re at a loss from their training program. As a training specialist it was silently killing me. That said, I should totally know everything, right? Well, I have no retention for liquor and wine info. We’ll see how that goes. Then there’s the computer system; 9 times out of ten they’re programmed in some dumb way so that’s always a struggle too. I’ll just have to work through it. That’s what servers do. UHG!
I have an interview of sorts tomorrow. We’ll see what comes of that. Maybe I’ll get a chance to be something else. Cheers to that.
OK, much better.
It was neither my worst nor best experience but let’s just say train wreck bears a striking resemblance to their training program and their whole way of doing things. For down south I presume its status quo. Well that’s what happens when the owner promotes his little girl to AGM. You know like, she’s like worked practically like every position and, ya know, like worked her way up…she’s been managing 1 year now ( of her whole 25 years of life) and she couldn’t even tell you what the training wage (aka minimum wage) is. She’s like, ya know, dumb.
It sucks to be treated like a subordinate (Oh, that’s right, I AM a subordinate) when you know you are more talented, more qualified than your superiors. But that’s neither here nor there. I am what I am. For now.
The staff was really pretty nice a great deal of them are new and barely knew more than us (there’s Tommy, the 21 one year old dudette from Florida that I’m training with). I can see why they’re at a loss from their training program. As a training specialist it was silently killing me. That said, I should totally know everything, right? Well, I have no retention for liquor and wine info. We’ll see how that goes. Then there’s the computer system; 9 times out of ten they’re programmed in some dumb way so that’s always a struggle too. I’ll just have to work through it. That’s what servers do. UHG!
I have an interview of sorts tomorrow. We’ll see what comes of that. Maybe I’ll get a chance to be something else. Cheers to that.
What am I?
So I got a damn job and let me tell you I ain’t all that happy about it. I found out yesterday. About 2 hours before Walmart closed (yes, they close here – not the 24 hour gig they got up north) which is where I ran to buy my work pants. Let’s just say it’s where the big girls shop and I ain’t all too happy about that either. I was writing about how I ended up at this job when I got bored with it and decided to rant about the last few days. The new gig starts today at 3. I’m ever so NOT happy about it but that story is for another day.
Let’s see, hmmm… I’ve been reading this book “Everything I want to do is Illegal” by Joel Salatin which has really been making my head spin. Farm policy, what a mess.. I thought I was a libertarian for a few days. The author presents things so logically, so passionately that you can’t help but find yourself taking his point of view on for yourself, but the last few chapters (I’m on like chapter 24 for now - I’m finally nearing the end, thank Joel’s god!) he’s been on this anti-pro-choice pro- god kick that is really irritating me. The whole fucking book is really interesting (as nutty as he can be) and highlights the profoundly ridiculous legislation on farming policy not to mention how fucked up the USDA is but his penchant for the Lincoln-Douglas debate style has him leaning on one radical example after another to prove his point. In hind sight, I realized it’s easy to use the periphery the skew the view but it’s the totality of the situation that OUGHT to be considered but I digress. While I’ll concede to wanting less government I can’t say what the fuck I am. But I thought I might be a libertarian for a few days there, I really thought I might be; he was making so much sense; it seemed logical to jump to some radical conclusions. Not that he is a libertarian, I don’t know what the fuck he is, but I just thought maybe I was leaning in that direction. Sleep deprivation has its way with you sometimes; it made for a few interesting conversations on facebook so there you go. The libertarian bullshit aside, I became more committed to our food ideas but somehow ended up buying a rib-eye and some bakers at Walmart last night. Poverty and convenience has its way with you too.
We both knew better but 2 gut aches and 1 flavorless meal later we were reminded about how important it is to know where your food source is, how it is cared for and where/how it is processed. Despite some fucking dumb-ass article I read about New Orleans being the most “local” in its food (WHAT A FUCKING JOKE – with Sysco calling the shots in a majority of the restaurants, shit like Chinese crawfish, and hit restaurants like Stella sourcing nothing but the shrimp from the area – GIVE ME A BREAK) sourcing clean and local is a real struggle we’ve been having here. The New Orlineans have good propaganda though, I’ll give them that.
Anyway, we’ve really been having a hard time sourcing but we keep trying. Yesterday’s effort landed us at a “butcher” that was smack dab in the middle of a ghetto convenient store that sold more Mad Dog 20/20 than anyone should (it was kind of prettily displayed in all its colorful glory right alongside the pickled hogs feet and car oil). There was actually a sizeable meat counter tucked in the back corner right behind a Crispy Crunch fried chicken chain and they had decent prices but all of the meat was frozen and clearly poorly handled. My favorite family value pack included pickled parts and 2 gallons of fruit punch among the other offerings – hilarious and sad all in one. It was frightening. Boy do I miss our Clancy’s meat market. We really took for granted our nice little local food scene. J had a good blog title idea yesterday: My Blog, A Tale of Two Cities. ‘Cuz folks, I’m here to tell you Minneapolis and New Orleans could not be more different.
What else? Well, our new friend/neighbor is a closeted gay man with a real (and by real I mean HUGE) penchant for the drink. Now, don’t get me wrong there’s nothing wrong with that in my book unless your life starts interfering with my life but it also turns out he’s a raging racist. How one persecuted minority group can talk such hate about another is beyond me but I’ve really had it with his use of “darkies.” If he keeps this up I might just have to steal all his booze and show up on his door step with every person of color I know just to making him palpably nervous. Jesus Christ, he’s been living in Chicago for the last 17 years didn’t he acclimate at all?
Other highlights of my week include: hanging out with my homeless friend who was gonna play me ‘cuz he thought I was some tourist from New York, being asked out for drinks by an old man who was so drunk he could barely keep his eyes open (note: he was wearing overalls, was missing most of his teeth, and had those icky white chalky spiddles in the corner of his mouth.), an entire day of non-adventure while trying to “make something happen,” mysteriously losing the first job offer that was made to me, making shitty-ass ravioli and making a proclamation to attach everything I own to the walls because it isn’t gonna fit anywhere else.
When I first wrote this it was 3 am. I was wide awake and dreading tomorrow (today) with every ounce of my being ‘cuz I am for damn sure not happy about where things are headed. I have a Walmart steak in my gut, I share a wall with a racist and while not a libertarian I am not one step further in defining who I really am and how I’m gonna live the life I want to be living. But I guess, starting today, I am a server and a 36 year old one at that.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Desperate Times call for Desperate Measures
Desperate times call for desperate measures, sure, but I seem to lack the momentum to really push – push hard to open all doors. Currently I’ve only managed to nudge open a few windows –actually little doggie doors seems more like it-- to wait tables and those prospects seem luke-warm at best (hey it could be worse, I could be working at Bubba Gumps. Mr. Mister, on the other hand, has had a full-fledge resurgence of renewed strength and has done a few courageous things that are worth noting. To be honest, my man has approached this whole employment fiasco with much more aplomb than myself but that, however, may not land him a job either. Regardless, his gusto should be applauded and a few of his braver recent moments are shared here.
#1: Putting aside all ego the Mr. decided to discover for himself why he had not been called back by Bacco restaurant. He’d applied on more than one occasion (there had been a few Craigslist posts) but had not heard from anyone. This being a common occurrence I was quick to write it off; The Mr., on the other hand, got a burr up his bum and marched in there between services and requested to speak to the chef. As it turned out, the chef had not seen his resume (instead the HR gal had riffled through them and decided for herself which ones the chef should review). He interviewed very well and was asked to perform a stage the next day (working interview). Again, he performed another non-paying 13 hour shift. He also staged at a sister restaurant—providing 2 more 12 hour free shifts for which he was offered a poorly paid non-management position—but has not since heard back from either establishment. In fact, unlike any other stage, he was rushed out the door by the chef de cuisine at Bacco with a forced 20 in his hand. OK, so I guess I lied about the not being paid part but, seriously, he’s never seen a dime before and the twenty , he said, felt more like a bribe to never, ever come back.
#2: When we first moved here we met this guy from the Chicago area who was a chef (is a “chef” actually, but more of a paper pusher short as of current). Anyway, this guy was very nice and suggested he and the Mr. go for a drink one of these days . . . the Mr. staged there for two nights a few months back (yup, 2 more of those non-paying gigs) but wasn’t even so much as offered a job because: 1. He was over qualified, 2. “a different caliber of cook” and 3. too expensive; not that money was even discussed. Anyway, following the outing a few weeks back an interesting, albeit vague, proposition emerged. A nice hourly compensation was finally negotiated but no real impetus as to what either party would be getting out of it nor any time-line for assessment, promotion, etc. Hmmmm, it was a bold ego humbling move and a strong negotiation, but for what? That is still to be determined but the Mr. made one courageous move that will remain an infamous story in our collective history.
#3: My BFF graciously purchased the new John Besh cookbook for my birthday. It’s a pretty sexy little number but what I hadn’t realized (besides the fact that the delivery dudes here are morons and chuck all packages over the 12 foot gateway into the alley) was that we were in receipt of an early addition.
Since we had recently begun the tradition of collecting autographs in our cook and food-related books my man suggested that I have Besh autograph my book. Although I love the idea of a signature I HATE succumbing to the “celebrity chefs” of the world and participating in the fodder that swells their already massive egos. Since I had just read about Besh’s appearance-to-be at the coming weekend’s seafood festival I was quick to throw the ball back in my man’s court.
“You,” I asserted, “should go down and solicit the autograph and use it as an excuse to present your resume to him directly.”
Wait. Let me back up. The Mr. staged for August way back in like August. Yeah, that was it, I remember thinking it was cute or ironic that he was interviewing for August in August. Anyway, it all went well until his 26 year-old chef de cuisine and/or his 22 year-old sous chefs cock-blocked him (or whatever who can really tell what happened because nothing, thus far, has made any sense to me in our employment pursuits down here). My Mr. really wanted to work there so, initially, he was crushed. He went from being warmly received to being coldly dismissed. No explanation, no follow up just a “don’t call us we’ll call you” blasé blasé e-mail after following up with the director of operations; whom he’d met and had had many correspondence with prior. He went from being cherry-plucked from 300 applicants to not so much as even being considered for ANY of the dozens of positions open in the quickly proliferating Besh group—mind you my man has 23 years experience. Restaurant politics can suck it.
Any hoo, Mr was able to set that aside (don’t know if I could) and decided without so much as a flinch that he would do it; he would present his resume to the man himself. He’d heard, after all, that Chef Besh liked dynamic people. That was dynamic, right?
“What time is he on?” the Mr. asked. (We both thought it was sometime on Saturday, the following day.)
“Oh, I don’t remember. Let me look.” And I did, kind of lackadaisically. “Oh, hell, he was on like 15 minutes ago.” Without skipping a beat, the man grabbed his helmet, his resume, a kiss and headed out the door.
While I didn’t attend (I was still in my jammies), this is what was reported:
The Mr. scooted down to the festival sight not knowing exactly where the festival nor where the demonstration sight was. He headed toward Harrah’s casino knowing it was in that general area. Since he was on the Vespa –and this is the beauty of the thing—he just started darting in and out of the place looking for some sign of where the big-shot chef might be. Lo and behold chef Besh wasn’t even on yet; in fact, he saw him outside drinking a beer with one of his subordinates. Excited, he forgot to even turn off the damn Vespa before heading over (and then he realized and went and grabbed the damn keys).
He approached, introduced himself and asked if he (Besh) might do him a favor.
“I’m a big fan and I wondered if you might sign this for me.”
A look of shock came over Besh’s face, “Where’d you get this . . . it’s not been released yet.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way. Actually, a friend sent it to me in the mail.”
“Huh, you must have good friends.”
“Yes, I do.”
Besh went to open the book to where an author might typically autograph it (one of his first autographs we later thought). “Awwe, what’s that?” My man playfully asked, “Oh my, my resume. Hmmm, how’d that get there? What blatant self promotion. Tisk, tisk; shame on me. (A few smiles, a little chuckle.) Well, since it’s already in your hand you might aas well keep that copy for yourself.”
“So, where’d you come from?”
“Minneapolis.”
“Yeah? Who’d you work for?”
“Jean Georges.”
A tiny bell of familiarity appeared to strike him. “Didn’t you interview or…”
“Yeah, I did …” My man gave a brief yeah I did, not sure what happened, would really like to work for you, heard you like out-going individuals, etc, etc. And then he shook his hand, tossed the book in his backpack and left almost as quickly as he’d arrived. He didn’t want to appear as if he were stalking the guy or anything but he’d done what he’d set out to do and I was proud of him for having done it.
My Northern Order
When I lived up north we were always hankering for some fried chicken. Now that we have it whenever the mood strikes us there are plenty of things we wish we had while down here. I've been thinking about this for awhile now.
Here is my northern order which includes all the things I can't get and am desperately missing (in no particular order):
• 1 case of Gazella – OK, 6 cases just to tide me over for a bit. In my opinion, the wine selection here kind of sucks with but a few (if any) vino verde offerings. Like many things, the shit they have is outdated.
• Dorthy Lynch – made in Nebraska this sweet western-style dressing is nowhere to be found.
• That f#@!n’ lavosh sandwich from Holly Land – the special ones that white people have to convince them that it is in fact the actual sandwich they want!
• Lu’s sour pork bahn mi. Make that a dozen to go.
• The Hmong market – especially the delightfully spicy papaya salad with purple sticky rice and their ribs. I really miss those. They’ve never heard of Hmong people down here let alone their distinctive cuisine. Hell, they think the Vietnamese here are Chinese and the Hondurans are Mexican.
• King and I’s #34 – Cashew Chicken in hot pepper sauce (and their calamari with extra dipping sauce!) I seriously have loved this dish for like a decade and I’m super fond of the coconut, tomato, shrimp soup too. Mmmmm, it is so delicious and perfect for cold weather. Not that we have any cold weather here thus far – HAHAHAHAHAH
• Lamb bacon BLT. That mo fo Sameh ought to f#@%! Over night us some – or the damn recipe at least! For that matter his peeps oughtta friggin inundate the market here with their hummus and stuff cuz the ready-made shit here is crap-olla! And there’s like only one Middle-Eastern grocery retailer and it’s half-ass at best. Can we import a Holy Land for the southern market, please?
• Uh, how about a friggin’ co-op. Seriously, they don’t exist here and I’d take even MN’s crappiest. But the Wedge or that shiny fancy one you worked out would do nicely.
• A REAL farmer’s market. You have no idea what you’re missing once you’re missing it. OK, I knew it was great but I actually (naively) thought it would be better here. NOT!!!
• Just one will do but I did oh so love that croquet madame at Vincent.
• 5$ Pho. The stuff exists here but it over priced and not quite as good.
• The Chef Shack should certainly do a tour of the south too. I’m just saying.
• Minnesota sweet corn. That 1$ an ear, Texas bi-color corn is nothing compared to our sweet, sweet Mn.
• Lenny Russo should so come down here and kick some sense(I was gonna say kick some teeth out but many a folk here are already without) into these peeps about local, seasonal, sustainable. Really. Are you fucking kidding me with the canned Sycso shit? OK, Brenda or Lucia would do nicely too but I always appreciate Lenny’s totally articulate bereavement.
OK, I quit now. I’m sure there is more so consider this part one of my order.
Here is my northern order which includes all the things I can't get and am desperately missing (in no particular order):
• 1 case of Gazella – OK, 6 cases just to tide me over for a bit. In my opinion, the wine selection here kind of sucks with but a few (if any) vino verde offerings. Like many things, the shit they have is outdated.
• Dorthy Lynch – made in Nebraska this sweet western-style dressing is nowhere to be found.
• That f#@!n’ lavosh sandwich from Holly Land – the special ones that white people have to convince them that it is in fact the actual sandwich they want!
• Lu’s sour pork bahn mi. Make that a dozen to go.
• The Hmong market – especially the delightfully spicy papaya salad with purple sticky rice and their ribs. I really miss those. They’ve never heard of Hmong people down here let alone their distinctive cuisine. Hell, they think the Vietnamese here are Chinese and the Hondurans are Mexican.
• King and I’s #34 – Cashew Chicken in hot pepper sauce (and their calamari with extra dipping sauce!) I seriously have loved this dish for like a decade and I’m super fond of the coconut, tomato, shrimp soup too. Mmmmm, it is so delicious and perfect for cold weather. Not that we have any cold weather here thus far – HAHAHAHAHAH
• Lamb bacon BLT. That mo fo Sameh ought to f#@%! Over night us some – or the damn recipe at least! For that matter his peeps oughtta friggin inundate the market here with their hummus and stuff cuz the ready-made shit here is crap-olla! And there’s like only one Middle-Eastern grocery retailer and it’s half-ass at best. Can we import a Holy Land for the southern market, please?
• Uh, how about a friggin’ co-op. Seriously, they don’t exist here and I’d take even MN’s crappiest. But the Wedge or that shiny fancy one you worked out would do nicely.
• A REAL farmer’s market. You have no idea what you’re missing once you’re missing it. OK, I knew it was great but I actually (naively) thought it would be better here. NOT!!!
• Just one will do but I did oh so love that croquet madame at Vincent.
• 5$ Pho. The stuff exists here but it over priced and not quite as good.
• The Chef Shack should certainly do a tour of the south too. I’m just saying.
• Minnesota sweet corn. That 1$ an ear, Texas bi-color corn is nothing compared to our sweet, sweet Mn.
• Lenny Russo should so come down here and kick some sense(I was gonna say kick some teeth out but many a folk here are already without) into these peeps about local, seasonal, sustainable. Really. Are you fucking kidding me with the canned Sycso shit? OK, Brenda or Lucia would do nicely too but I always appreciate Lenny’s totally articulate bereavement.
OK, I quit now. I’m sure there is more so consider this part one of my order.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Welcome to my life, a quick recap
Since my last posting there have been a few incident of note but I’ve been too busy to share them here. Although I will certainly recant those experiences (some good some not so good) let me just give you a quick recap of my month so far:
• We’ve received 2 tickets and the car was towed; one ticket was rescinded (after 2 visits to the court house, a video, a letter, and pictures) saving us 40$ we didn’t have.
• We’ve been audited; now owing an additional 200 bucks in one month’s time.
• I’ve had 2 serious financial meltdowns after performing minor clerical errors with our multiple checking and credit card accounts.
• We have walked out of no fewer than 5 restaurants because of the service.
• I’ve applied to 23 more jobs and have had 6 interviews; Mr. Man has serendipitously donated another 36 + hours of free labor for jobs he’ll likely never get and/or accept due to poor wage compensation.
• I was offered one serving position at le restaurant. I have already submitted to the background check and will comply with the mandatory drug test this afternoon. For the record: I consider both huge invasions of privacy. Let’s remember folks, this is a serving position. * At the age of 30 I quit what I would have referred to as my last serving job because I “didn’t want to be a 30-year-old server.” Maybe at 40 I can revisit that notion.
• I’ve been hit on by a late forty-something goober on the street (invited me to breakfast some day), a toothless half-in-the-bag “professional painter” at the Laundromat, and a 66 year old gypsy who’s just returned to the states after 2 heart attacks. Although he still had his teeth, they were grayed by a 3 pack, bottle of whisky a day habit (which is, according to him, his medicine). Let’s not forget the giant, greasy red neck who stopped his car to ogle and proclaim “you look good” (infer hillbilly dipshit accent and gapping mouth) and the twenty-something boy I thought had been flirting with me. He, I might add, turned out to be gay and is more likely to hit on my man than on myself.
• I visited a convent.
These, my friends, are the moments of my life in the few weeks following my 36th birthday. Happy fucking birthday to me indeed.
• We’ve received 2 tickets and the car was towed; one ticket was rescinded (after 2 visits to the court house, a video, a letter, and pictures) saving us 40$ we didn’t have.
• We’ve been audited; now owing an additional 200 bucks in one month’s time.
• I’ve had 2 serious financial meltdowns after performing minor clerical errors with our multiple checking and credit card accounts.
• We have walked out of no fewer than 5 restaurants because of the service.
• I’ve applied to 23 more jobs and have had 6 interviews; Mr. Man has serendipitously donated another 36 + hours of free labor for jobs he’ll likely never get and/or accept due to poor wage compensation.
• I was offered one serving position at le restaurant. I have already submitted to the background check and will comply with the mandatory drug test this afternoon. For the record: I consider both huge invasions of privacy. Let’s remember folks, this is a serving position. * At the age of 30 I quit what I would have referred to as my last serving job because I “didn’t want to be a 30-year-old server.” Maybe at 40 I can revisit that notion.
• I’ve been hit on by a late forty-something goober on the street (invited me to breakfast some day), a toothless half-in-the-bag “professional painter” at the Laundromat, and a 66 year old gypsy who’s just returned to the states after 2 heart attacks. Although he still had his teeth, they were grayed by a 3 pack, bottle of whisky a day habit (which is, according to him, his medicine). Let’s not forget the giant, greasy red neck who stopped his car to ogle and proclaim “you look good” (infer hillbilly dipshit accent and gapping mouth) and the twenty-something boy I thought had been flirting with me. He, I might add, turned out to be gay and is more likely to hit on my man than on myself.
• I visited a convent.
These, my friends, are the moments of my life in the few weeks following my 36th birthday. Happy fucking birthday to me indeed.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Another One Bites the Dust - Part Two
After two reschedules I make it back into –let’s call it le restaurant—to meet with the chef (who is the man in charge there) and little miss sweater set.
I opted to play down the interview attire (like my resume) knowing full well that if I show up in a suit I would be far better dressed than le manager who already doesn’t like me. A simple purple wrap dress will do.
I check in with the front desk and I have to wait 20 minutes before she arrives. I am escorted back to the private dining room where I had my first two interviews. She informs me we’ll have to reschedule again. She already rescheduled twice over the phone but was apparently too important to do me the courtesy of calling me that day. I’m told the chef is out with the flu and, per Doctor’s orders, is not permitted to return to work for a week. But then states she’d like me to meet with him and herself on Thursday – not of next week but 2 days from now (today). Huh? How’s that work? She further notes that they would like me to start ASAP but that I have to meet with them again and then with the GM and then a drug test.
Time out. I have already met with her and the chef. I could have totally met with GM Tuesday, the day she had me come in for the non-interview. I can take the stupid drug test when ever. I’ll pee in her hand right now if that would suffice. But why the fuck is she wasting my time?
Before I leave she adds that there are a few ”snarky” (or something like that) college kids that work there. Would I be OK working with them she asks. I try to make light of it; I add that I like to think I'm mature enough to be above it. What I really think is that if they’re “difficult” or “miss behaved” shouldn’t she, as the manager, take action? I don’t know, shouldn’t she manage her people? Damn, I wish I could remember exactly how she put it. It was ridiculous and just like I didn’t know why I was there I didn’t know what her point was.
Now it’s Thursday, the day we were to have met. She still hasn’t called. I haven’t heard a word from le restaurant.
I opted to play down the interview attire (like my resume) knowing full well that if I show up in a suit I would be far better dressed than le manager who already doesn’t like me. A simple purple wrap dress will do.
I check in with the front desk and I have to wait 20 minutes before she arrives. I am escorted back to the private dining room where I had my first two interviews. She informs me we’ll have to reschedule again. She already rescheduled twice over the phone but was apparently too important to do me the courtesy of calling me that day. I’m told the chef is out with the flu and, per Doctor’s orders, is not permitted to return to work for a week. But then states she’d like me to meet with him and herself on Thursday – not of next week but 2 days from now (today). Huh? How’s that work? She further notes that they would like me to start ASAP but that I have to meet with them again and then with the GM and then a drug test.
Time out. I have already met with her and the chef. I could have totally met with GM Tuesday, the day she had me come in for the non-interview. I can take the stupid drug test when ever. I’ll pee in her hand right now if that would suffice. But why the fuck is she wasting my time?
Before I leave she adds that there are a few ”snarky” (or something like that) college kids that work there. Would I be OK working with them she asks. I try to make light of it; I add that I like to think I'm mature enough to be above it. What I really think is that if they’re “difficult” or “miss behaved” shouldn’t she, as the manager, take action? I don’t know, shouldn’t she manage her people? Damn, I wish I could remember exactly how she put it. It was ridiculous and just like I didn’t know why I was there I didn’t know what her point was.
Now it’s Thursday, the day we were to have met. She still hasn’t called. I haven’t heard a word from le restaurant.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Bye Bye Beth
I’m dying. Literally. My belly burns and my head is throbbing. I slept on the floor. I’m sure I said something stupid.
We had our first friend visit. Beth and her man came through last night and she was generous beyond belief. I hadn’t drunk for a few days and by a few I mean 3. 3 sober days. We started late, around 11, and I couldn’t tell you when we stopped or when I got home. You do that here, loose time. We ended up at the Tiki Bar. They pour ‘em short but they pour them strong.
Beth played golf in the street. My man chatted it up with a local loon. I drank. I drank too much. I’m dying. Now I’m at home, alone. The man is working for free, again. I hope I didn’t keep him out too late. I hope he didn’t tie one on too. I wouldn’t know because we’re not speaking. I’m sure I said something stupid. Why else would I sleep on the floor?
Beth is now gone. It was fun. It went too fast. It was nice to have a friend here. Even for a minute.
We had our first friend visit. Beth and her man came through last night and she was generous beyond belief. I hadn’t drunk for a few days and by a few I mean 3. 3 sober days. We started late, around 11, and I couldn’t tell you when we stopped or when I got home. You do that here, loose time. We ended up at the Tiki Bar. They pour ‘em short but they pour them strong.
Beth played golf in the street. My man chatted it up with a local loon. I drank. I drank too much. I’m dying. Now I’m at home, alone. The man is working for free, again. I hope I didn’t keep him out too late. I hope he didn’t tie one on too. I wouldn’t know because we’re not speaking. I’m sure I said something stupid. Why else would I sleep on the floor?
Beth is now gone. It was fun. It went too fast. It was nice to have a friend here. Even for a minute.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Another One Bites the Dust
I have sent out more resumes than I can count with, sadly, few responses. Over qualified, under qualified, getting lost in the shuffle . . . don’t know what the deal is but I suspect some have something to do with managers who just don’t want the competition. My resume is pretty good, if I say so myself, and my cover letters are always thoughtful and well written so why can’t I even get a call back in most instances? Well, I got a call yesterday for a server position and, after selling myself over the phone, (apparently I had screwed up and not attached a resume – so I got the call simply off the cover letter) I managed to get an interview that same day.
A few hours later I meet with the chef and the interview went well. There is always room for improvement but it went well enough that he passes me onto round two with a FOH manager. She and I didn’t hit it off.
The first thing out of her mouth: she insults my hand shake. I make a joke. She scoffs at my resume.
This version of my resume is scaled down to one page simply noting my employer, position and dates of employment. Next line of attack: longevity.
I don’t happen to think stints of 1 – 3 ½ years a piece plus having owned and operated my own business since 2000 is a “problem with longevity.” Restaurants are a pretty volatile industry and a year here, a year there is no big deal where I’m from, in fact it’s better than many with 6 month stints. Apparently, according to her, things aren’t done like that here. Sure, I’d love to stick around longer if I had a job that was challenging enough to stick around for; or maybe some upward opportunities presented themselves but generally my “job jumping” is the result of 1.the business itself changing (i.e., partner litigation, lay-offs, etc) or 2. I receive an offer of more money and/or more responsibility elsewhere. As I see, it’s just sound decision making on my part. But I digress.
I heard this lady yelling at the staff just prior to meeting with me. No big deal, I’ve been in her shoes, and sometimes someone’s behavior warrants a firm conversation but why was she taking this posture with me? We argued. All she wanted to hear was me agreeing with her. What was it to me? A job, that’s what; so I did, I agreed. The meeting was brief; she basically made fun of my responses. She was pinched. She seemed threatened – especially every time she minimized my experience. She made a point of reiterating on like 4 occasions that it was likely I wouldn’t “work the floor” (you start as a busser, expo, take some tests, suck up to the floor manager – I know the drill) for what could be months.
Yeah, I get it. I go through the hoops and hopefully make some good money when you’re through. At the end, however, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear back or, if I did, if I’d even make any money being there. There were only 4 front servers, and not a lot of covers, but the menu is smart, the chef seemed to have it together and the press had, thus far, been positive.
I do the right thing. I send the chef a thank you e-mail. 20 minutes later she, the FOH manager, calls me back and schedules a 2nd interview. We’ll see how this one goes.
A few hours later I meet with the chef and the interview went well. There is always room for improvement but it went well enough that he passes me onto round two with a FOH manager. She and I didn’t hit it off.
The first thing out of her mouth: she insults my hand shake. I make a joke. She scoffs at my resume.
This version of my resume is scaled down to one page simply noting my employer, position and dates of employment. Next line of attack: longevity.
I don’t happen to think stints of 1 – 3 ½ years a piece plus having owned and operated my own business since 2000 is a “problem with longevity.” Restaurants are a pretty volatile industry and a year here, a year there is no big deal where I’m from, in fact it’s better than many with 6 month stints. Apparently, according to her, things aren’t done like that here. Sure, I’d love to stick around longer if I had a job that was challenging enough to stick around for; or maybe some upward opportunities presented themselves but generally my “job jumping” is the result of 1.the business itself changing (i.e., partner litigation, lay-offs, etc) or 2. I receive an offer of more money and/or more responsibility elsewhere. As I see, it’s just sound decision making on my part. But I digress.
I heard this lady yelling at the staff just prior to meeting with me. No big deal, I’ve been in her shoes, and sometimes someone’s behavior warrants a firm conversation but why was she taking this posture with me? We argued. All she wanted to hear was me agreeing with her. What was it to me? A job, that’s what; so I did, I agreed. The meeting was brief; she basically made fun of my responses. She was pinched. She seemed threatened – especially every time she minimized my experience. She made a point of reiterating on like 4 occasions that it was likely I wouldn’t “work the floor” (you start as a busser, expo, take some tests, suck up to the floor manager – I know the drill) for what could be months.
Yeah, I get it. I go through the hoops and hopefully make some good money when you’re through. At the end, however, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear back or, if I did, if I’d even make any money being there. There were only 4 front servers, and not a lot of covers, but the menu is smart, the chef seemed to have it together and the press had, thus far, been positive.
I do the right thing. I send the chef a thank you e-mail. 20 minutes later she, the FOH manager, calls me back and schedules a 2nd interview. We’ll see how this one goes.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
One . Two . Three . Fuck me .
Wellie-well girls and boys I completed a harrowing series of interviews the other day equally about 5.5 hours of my life but if you count phone calls, transportation, preparation, and the all-dreaded trips to Kinkos; in addition to bitching, lamenting, wondering, wishing and a myriad of other bullshit -- not too mention my man's contribution in all this (see below)-- it is way closer to about 50 hours. That’s a week’s pay. Pay me mother fuckers, pay me now.
I was reluctant to post the details of my experience for fear that it may haunt me, that someone would discover it . . . and then I decided I didn’t fucking care and that I needed to just say my piece. And for me, venting here seemed a good way to get it off my chest and let it go. So here it is: 3 weeks torture for a job I didn’t even get and, apparently, never existed at all.
Interview one:
I met with the GM and we hit it off splendidly. It was a tough interview though I thought I did sportingly well. I was told, after a 2 ½ - 3 hour interview that although he, the GM, wanted me at his location as a restaurant manager it was a possible that I may be considered for a management position at a sister location. This other restaurant, the “fine-dining café,” is nowhere near as established, recognized, nor would it make any kind of stellar addition to my resume. Didn’t matter at the time ‘cuz I was a shoe in . . .
My man was also interviewing at the very same esteemed organization. His interview went equally well and he and the chef (he was interviewing for a sous chef position) scheduled a stage for the next phase of the interview. At the end of the un-paid 14 hour shift during which he prepared 6 courses for the chef and GM, worked the line serving more than 400 guests, and stayed till the bitter end cleaning the line with everyone else, the chef pulled him aside and noted that he could probably secure him 55-60 in salary and to follow up with him in 8-10 days. Which he did, but I’ll get back to that.
The following week I get a call to schedule a second interview. It turns out the operations manager isn’t available but one of the managing owners is so, yet another week later, I meet with one of the owners.
Interview two:
Well, this was my first experience with a power lesbian and I just couldn’t tell if she was made at me, my vagina, my red lips or just the world. Never in my life have I felt such hostility in a frickin’ interview. It felt like her questions were more like accusations. I managed to get her to laugh a few times but I think, in retrospect, she was probably laughing at me. But let’s discuss some of the particulars.
A few times I fell into corporate speak (trying to be truthful but positive) and she'd say stuff like "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" and sometimes she’d just glare and shake her head. Usually I like forthright people but there was just this tone – this clear indignation that I was beneath her and not worthy of her valuable time. If she didn’t want to waste her time maybe she shouldn’t have asked me such stupid fucking questions. Plus there's this whole rich elitist thing.
For example, she asked that if I wanted to live abroad why I didn't just go do it. Like, yeah, I just got all the money and resources to just up and move to Tanzania or something. Sorry, lady, not all of us are born with a silver spoon up our ass. I tried cracking a few jokes and being myself but maybe the bow in my head or my pretty red lips were distracting her. I wanted to kick her in the shins with my new pointy-toed shoes. I felt like I was being bullied.
She asked a bunch of questions that kind of caught me off guard but when she asked who I looked up to (dead or alive) I couldn't think of anyone so I said Martha Stewart. We had this whole weird exchange about her (my be-loved Martha) being a bitch and if I think successful people should be able to treat people however they want to.
"No, of course not" I explained, "but I've never worked for her and, if I did, I guess I'd find out for myself."
Then she asked if I had ever read anything about Ms. Stuart. (Do you like that? I almost made it sound like she was being respectful toward her or something, which she wasn’t.) Anyway, we went back and forth a bit about the merits of Martha, what I had read, and what she –Ms. power-pussy-pants, thought of her. She ended the conversation, lips pursed, hands folded, asserting that she had met her and she was a bitch. My opinion: so fucking what. I didn't say I admired her personality or that I thought she was a contender for Miss Congeniality but what I had said was that I respected her ability to take her passions and create an empire, admired her position as a woman business leader, adored her aesthetic; not one fucking thing about "oh, she's such a nice person." Besides, would people really discuss that if she were a man? I think not. I said something along those lines too but any mention of a man fell on deaf ears. Hmmm, what else?
I made several attempts to lighten the mood. I brought up local cuisine, indigenous foods and preparation, I brought up gator – which she declared was awful and would never be on their menu. (Oh contraire you mean-spirited lesbo, you have gator sausage on your lunch menu!) There was no winning with this woman but I kept my head up and a smile on my face through the entire ordeal.
That said, the interview wasn’t exactly going badly but it wasn’t my best performance. The whole thing felt off – she was just mean. “Well, I gotta go," she said in closing, "some of us have night jobs." What the hell happened? I didn’t know where I stood and then I got to thinking about it: about her, the place, the interview.
Boy, she sure thinks their shit is the best thing next to the universe itself but let me tell you 6.5 million doesn't go far these days I guess because the carpets are in shambles, the offices are smelly run-down holes, the computers archaic, the menu/plate presentations outdated and the kitchen is short on everything from small-wares to developed talent(the chef seems to know his shit but that aside…).
Did I mention they just fired 2 sous because apparently they sent dishes out to the owners "without tasting them first." I'm sure complacency had more to do with it but it got us thinking about what was going on there. We chose the optimistic perspective. Maybe they were looking for a new start? Maybe we were the breath of fresh air they were looking for?
Or not. My man gave the chef a call back to discuss the details of his employment only to discover they “had decided to go a different way.” There was some story about a guy from Florida and an un-opened place in Texas. Who knows? We thought, again, to look at it from a positive point of view. We thought that maybe the owners (though the GM and chef were fine with it) weren’t OK with hiring both of us and they had to choose. That would mean good things for me, right?
In my departure from the second interview I ran into the GM. He looked beaten, exhausted, slumped over in his chair - he might as well have been a cripple; he couldn’t move. He could barely raise his hand to shake mine. His forehead cradled into the palm of his other hand. He'd just finished 350 covers for lunch and was trying to gear up for dinner. He was clearly short-handed and looked at me as if I represented some glimmer of hope. I thought well, at least I had him on my side.
I went from being totally excited about working there to wondering what the hell I was thinking. I'd been warned they'd work me to death but I was up to the challenge - I wanted to work there. I wanted to take over their training and development (their gal was leaving in a few months) and I knew I was as good if not better than the nearly all-man team they already had. I wanted to add them to my resume. I could suck it up for a year or 2 or 5 if need be. So I waited for the next call.
Interview 3:
Showing up late and departing in just over an hour this round-bellied suit probably hadn’t seen the floor (and I mean dining room here) in the last 10 years of his 20 year tenure there. The operation manager started out pleasant enough but blindsided me about 2/3rd the way into the interview when he stated “there are no opening here.” He then asked, “has the hotel contacted you?”
My head imploded, my mouth agape. What just happened? I had specifically asked Ms. tarty-twat if I was interviewing for a position here or at the sister restaurant and she said sternly, “well, if you were interviewing for a position there you’d be over there interviewing.” OK, that seemed conclusive enough but why then am I here now, here at the place I had applied to, for the position that was posted, interviewing with the folks that managed this location. What the fuck is going on?
I was informed that he had forwarded my resume and I should be hearing from someone. I kind of got the feeling it was sort of a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” kind of situation - I could not get off property fast enough. I was pissed and now, 2 days later, I think I got the brush off too. So what was the last interview even about?
The ad for the other place has since been removed and I haven’t heard from anyone. I doubt I will hear from them again. And I doubt I care despite desperately needing a job – and one I had hoped would add to my resume in addition to my wallet – I was certainly less than thrilled to be working for this so-called reputable place for this long-standing family run restaurant. I’d love to say fuck them, their loss (and it is) but what short of throwing a temper tantrum am I to do? Well, now that I’ve purged I think I’ll move on and just chalk it up to another fucking thing I don’t get about New Orleans.
I was reluctant to post the details of my experience for fear that it may haunt me, that someone would discover it . . . and then I decided I didn’t fucking care and that I needed to just say my piece. And for me, venting here seemed a good way to get it off my chest and let it go. So here it is: 3 weeks torture for a job I didn’t even get and, apparently, never existed at all.
Interview one:
I met with the GM and we hit it off splendidly. It was a tough interview though I thought I did sportingly well. I was told, after a 2 ½ - 3 hour interview that although he, the GM, wanted me at his location as a restaurant manager it was a possible that I may be considered for a management position at a sister location. This other restaurant, the “fine-dining café,” is nowhere near as established, recognized, nor would it make any kind of stellar addition to my resume. Didn’t matter at the time ‘cuz I was a shoe in . . .
My man was also interviewing at the very same esteemed organization. His interview went equally well and he and the chef (he was interviewing for a sous chef position) scheduled a stage for the next phase of the interview. At the end of the un-paid 14 hour shift during which he prepared 6 courses for the chef and GM, worked the line serving more than 400 guests, and stayed till the bitter end cleaning the line with everyone else, the chef pulled him aside and noted that he could probably secure him 55-60 in salary and to follow up with him in 8-10 days. Which he did, but I’ll get back to that.
The following week I get a call to schedule a second interview. It turns out the operations manager isn’t available but one of the managing owners is so, yet another week later, I meet with one of the owners.
Interview two:
Well, this was my first experience with a power lesbian and I just couldn’t tell if she was made at me, my vagina, my red lips or just the world. Never in my life have I felt such hostility in a frickin’ interview. It felt like her questions were more like accusations. I managed to get her to laugh a few times but I think, in retrospect, she was probably laughing at me. But let’s discuss some of the particulars.
A few times I fell into corporate speak (trying to be truthful but positive) and she'd say stuff like "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" and sometimes she’d just glare and shake her head. Usually I like forthright people but there was just this tone – this clear indignation that I was beneath her and not worthy of her valuable time. If she didn’t want to waste her time maybe she shouldn’t have asked me such stupid fucking questions. Plus there's this whole rich elitist thing.
For example, she asked that if I wanted to live abroad why I didn't just go do it. Like, yeah, I just got all the money and resources to just up and move to Tanzania or something. Sorry, lady, not all of us are born with a silver spoon up our ass. I tried cracking a few jokes and being myself but maybe the bow in my head or my pretty red lips were distracting her. I wanted to kick her in the shins with my new pointy-toed shoes. I felt like I was being bullied.
She asked a bunch of questions that kind of caught me off guard but when she asked who I looked up to (dead or alive) I couldn't think of anyone so I said Martha Stewart. We had this whole weird exchange about her (my be-loved Martha) being a bitch and if I think successful people should be able to treat people however they want to.
"No, of course not" I explained, "but I've never worked for her and, if I did, I guess I'd find out for myself."
Then she asked if I had ever read anything about Ms. Stuart. (Do you like that? I almost made it sound like she was being respectful toward her or something, which she wasn’t.) Anyway, we went back and forth a bit about the merits of Martha, what I had read, and what she –Ms. power-pussy-pants, thought of her. She ended the conversation, lips pursed, hands folded, asserting that she had met her and she was a bitch. My opinion: so fucking what. I didn't say I admired her personality or that I thought she was a contender for Miss Congeniality but what I had said was that I respected her ability to take her passions and create an empire, admired her position as a woman business leader, adored her aesthetic; not one fucking thing about "oh, she's such a nice person." Besides, would people really discuss that if she were a man? I think not. I said something along those lines too but any mention of a man fell on deaf ears. Hmmm, what else?
I made several attempts to lighten the mood. I brought up local cuisine, indigenous foods and preparation, I brought up gator – which she declared was awful and would never be on their menu. (Oh contraire you mean-spirited lesbo, you have gator sausage on your lunch menu!) There was no winning with this woman but I kept my head up and a smile on my face through the entire ordeal.
That said, the interview wasn’t exactly going badly but it wasn’t my best performance. The whole thing felt off – she was just mean. “Well, I gotta go," she said in closing, "some of us have night jobs." What the hell happened? I didn’t know where I stood and then I got to thinking about it: about her, the place, the interview.
Boy, she sure thinks their shit is the best thing next to the universe itself but let me tell you 6.5 million doesn't go far these days I guess because the carpets are in shambles, the offices are smelly run-down holes, the computers archaic, the menu/plate presentations outdated and the kitchen is short on everything from small-wares to developed talent(the chef seems to know his shit but that aside…).
Did I mention they just fired 2 sous because apparently they sent dishes out to the owners "without tasting them first." I'm sure complacency had more to do with it but it got us thinking about what was going on there. We chose the optimistic perspective. Maybe they were looking for a new start? Maybe we were the breath of fresh air they were looking for?
Or not. My man gave the chef a call back to discuss the details of his employment only to discover they “had decided to go a different way.” There was some story about a guy from Florida and an un-opened place in Texas. Who knows? We thought, again, to look at it from a positive point of view. We thought that maybe the owners (though the GM and chef were fine with it) weren’t OK with hiring both of us and they had to choose. That would mean good things for me, right?
In my departure from the second interview I ran into the GM. He looked beaten, exhausted, slumped over in his chair - he might as well have been a cripple; he couldn’t move. He could barely raise his hand to shake mine. His forehead cradled into the palm of his other hand. He'd just finished 350 covers for lunch and was trying to gear up for dinner. He was clearly short-handed and looked at me as if I represented some glimmer of hope. I thought well, at least I had him on my side.
I went from being totally excited about working there to wondering what the hell I was thinking. I'd been warned they'd work me to death but I was up to the challenge - I wanted to work there. I wanted to take over their training and development (their gal was leaving in a few months) and I knew I was as good if not better than the nearly all-man team they already had. I wanted to add them to my resume. I could suck it up for a year or 2 or 5 if need be. So I waited for the next call.
Interview 3:
Showing up late and departing in just over an hour this round-bellied suit probably hadn’t seen the floor (and I mean dining room here) in the last 10 years of his 20 year tenure there. The operation manager started out pleasant enough but blindsided me about 2/3rd the way into the interview when he stated “there are no opening here.” He then asked, “has the hotel contacted you?”
My head imploded, my mouth agape. What just happened? I had specifically asked Ms. tarty-twat if I was interviewing for a position here or at the sister restaurant and she said sternly, “well, if you were interviewing for a position there you’d be over there interviewing.” OK, that seemed conclusive enough but why then am I here now, here at the place I had applied to, for the position that was posted, interviewing with the folks that managed this location. What the fuck is going on?
I was informed that he had forwarded my resume and I should be hearing from someone. I kind of got the feeling it was sort of a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” kind of situation - I could not get off property fast enough. I was pissed and now, 2 days later, I think I got the brush off too. So what was the last interview even about?
The ad for the other place has since been removed and I haven’t heard from anyone. I doubt I will hear from them again. And I doubt I care despite desperately needing a job – and one I had hoped would add to my resume in addition to my wallet – I was certainly less than thrilled to be working for this so-called reputable place for this long-standing family run restaurant. I’d love to say fuck them, their loss (and it is) but what short of throwing a temper tantrum am I to do? Well, now that I’ve purged I think I’ll move on and just chalk it up to another fucking thing I don’t get about New Orleans.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Promises, Promises
Ok, so my last post was a bit lazy and I’ve hardly been much of a contributor to this site as of late (or ever) but, hey, I’m trying. Of course I’m trying at a lot of things these days and in many, many cases failing miserably. I’m always “trying” to learn, to grow, to organize my to do list, be more responsible, to do all sorts of shit . . . and every so often some cliché landmark arises and I deem some sort of “all new me” or a “new start” or some other sort of frickin’ bullshit that’s supposed to mark the calendar as some sort of new beginning. I’ve been particularly full of shit for the last year or so and as if moving 1500 miles away wasn’t enough I thought it best to accompany it with an entire litany of other “new me” sort of crap. Ya know what I’m talking about, the kind of shit you’re always promising yourself on New Year’s Eve: quit smoking, learn French, lose weight . . . I’ve done all those things but it is important to note that I’ve forgotten most of my French, gained back the weight I’ve lost and promised for like 5 years to quit smoking before I actually quit smoking. So, here I am again with another passing b-day and I declare an all new beginning…. Excuse me, I’ll be right back, I gotta go refill my drinkie drink. Oh, Mr., could you fetch me a (ice tinkling against an empty glass) … Well, he is good for some things.
OK, drink refilled so you can see how well this new me bullshit is going.
The day of my birthday was relatively low-key but not bad. I stayed up till about 5 am and swore I’d get up early regardless for the “new beginning.” 11:30 rolled around and the 30 minute victory of the earlier- than-usual rise was quickly dismissed by some sound conclusion that I was entitled to a “b-day week transition.” Funny, right? Typical is more like it. I lazily returned to bed and, another hour later, started the day with a bloody. Not even really needed as a hang-over cure but a bloody seems less AL-coholic then starting the day with a straight up martini. But I digress.
Thus far the only thing I’ve done differently was walk about 3 more miles than usual on Saturday (note: a walk through the grocery store or to the nearest bar was about the typical work-out routine) but that was only in between restaurants, drinks, and a show to a beloved fowl-mouth comedian. So I guess the only difference was that I walked instead of scooted on the Vespa to said destinations. With one exception; we scooted to Domenica (Besh’s new hot spot) late Saturday so we could feed our faces moments before the kitchen closed. By the way, WTF is up with a 10:30 close time for a new fancy pants restaurant in NOLA? Seriously, WTF!!!
So, face filled with pasta, pizza, and wine we paid the exorbitant tab and headed home to walk the .9 miles to the bar to meet friends for a b-day celebration. Now it’s 1:30 and I left (walking home alone - w/o a stumble I might add) before even ordering a drink – or my friends showing up – because I was done. A triumph, right? Nope, just actually too tired. Victory at last? Not even kind of.
So here it is Sunday night (now nearly Monday morning) and it’s what’s become the day of reflection wherein I think about making another new start. Mondays are the start of a new week, maybe a new beginning? Yeah, yeah, I say it every other fucking week. I got an important interview tomorrow. I may, or may not nail it. I may, or may not care. I may or may not change. But not unlike every other week, birthday, New Year’s Eve I’ll promise to try. Tomorrow. But for now, I got 9 more minutes to refill my drink and do something useless.
Cheers.
OK, drink refilled so you can see how well this new me bullshit is going.
The day of my birthday was relatively low-key but not bad. I stayed up till about 5 am and swore I’d get up early regardless for the “new beginning.” 11:30 rolled around and the 30 minute victory of the earlier- than-usual rise was quickly dismissed by some sound conclusion that I was entitled to a “b-day week transition.” Funny, right? Typical is more like it. I lazily returned to bed and, another hour later, started the day with a bloody. Not even really needed as a hang-over cure but a bloody seems less AL-coholic then starting the day with a straight up martini. But I digress.
Thus far the only thing I’ve done differently was walk about 3 more miles than usual on Saturday (note: a walk through the grocery store or to the nearest bar was about the typical work-out routine) but that was only in between restaurants, drinks, and a show to a beloved fowl-mouth comedian. So I guess the only difference was that I walked instead of scooted on the Vespa to said destinations. With one exception; we scooted to Domenica (Besh’s new hot spot) late Saturday so we could feed our faces moments before the kitchen closed. By the way, WTF is up with a 10:30 close time for a new fancy pants restaurant in NOLA? Seriously, WTF!!!
So, face filled with pasta, pizza, and wine we paid the exorbitant tab and headed home to walk the .9 miles to the bar to meet friends for a b-day celebration. Now it’s 1:30 and I left (walking home alone - w/o a stumble I might add) before even ordering a drink – or my friends showing up – because I was done. A triumph, right? Nope, just actually too tired. Victory at last? Not even kind of.
So here it is Sunday night (now nearly Monday morning) and it’s what’s become the day of reflection wherein I think about making another new start. Mondays are the start of a new week, maybe a new beginning? Yeah, yeah, I say it every other fucking week. I got an important interview tomorrow. I may, or may not nail it. I may, or may not care. I may or may not change. But not unlike every other week, birthday, New Year’s Eve I’ll promise to try. Tomorrow. But for now, I got 9 more minutes to refill my drink and do something useless.
Cheers.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
You suck to work for
Looking for a job on Craigslist today and came across these jems. The retort from the owner of Sunny Day Cafe was flagged and removed before I could copy it. Note: Sunnyside Café has had 27 job postings in the past month. Is there something in the water here? The multiple sightings of undeveloped limbs (and one undeveloped man-boy – no, not a midget nor a dwarf) indicates, yes. Note to self: stop drinking water.
Re: Fat Hen sucks to work for
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 9:27AM CDT
Reply to: job-vxmna-1341255500@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
These owners have serious issues,you will not like working there. Don't waste your time!!
• Compensation: Bull shit!
PostingID: 1341255500
re: sunny day (st rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 7:37AM CDT
Reply to: job-68zmv-1341108621@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
I was recently there. I had a terrible experience. First you need to actual travel there only to fill out a generic application. It could easily made available for download.Then dropped off. While I was there the staff and owner or manager argued about standard operating procedures.After filling out an application I returned it for review.They placed my app. on a stack of other and didn't even my eye contact with me to when they said "thank you".Generally when you ask someone to come in to fill out a app. you give them the courtesy to site down with for 5 min.I could understand if they were busy,however they had one costumer.Please save your time and apply to real employers.Please to all that applied before please call and ask them to destroy your vital information 504-465-1331
• Location: st.rose
• Compensation: not worth your time
PostingID: 1341108621
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 6:02AM CDT
Reply to: job-gekk4-1341050439@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
this post has been on here for 3 - 6 months, i went there myself to talk to the man, willing to work FOH or BOH, i thought i had the job, but he didnot call me back, for a posting to be on here for so long, it must be a no brainer, the man will not give the job to someone unlees there are the same as him, and has to kow how to be perfect.
• Location: st rose
• Compensation: 1
PostingID: 1341050439
RE: Sunny Day Cafe
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 10:37PM CDT
Reply to: job-u3sva-1342630915@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
...These people are horrible employers and terribly inconsiderate people who could even be construed as abusive. I really feel that in some way it is almost a sadistic venture for the husband and wife owners to bring in pretty, young women and beat them down verbally and emotionally. I have never ever been viewed as anything less than a model employee EVER. I'm punctual, polite, and diligent. They don't train you at all, throw a lot of information at you and berate you when you don't succeed which only makes you feel worse and thus flounder more. I have never felt so awful my first day of work EVER. And I have worked some *&!? jobs. These people actually gave silent treatments when not pleased with you and verbally attacked my intelligence and ability to learn when I had barely been there a few hours. It was a terrible experience. They let me come in my fourth day and then fired me after I got there for being "ditzy" and saying I wasn't catching on fast enough. They knew they didn't want me right off I could tell but they couldn't be bothered to have the decency to spare me the traveling in the rain just to be further insulted. As far as being ditzy, as I am sure you might wonder if perhaps there was a reason for my treatment. I can assure you there is none. I am very intelligent and well mannered. I got another job within 24 hours of this unfortunate experience and am doing very well. This job involves as much or more of the skills and requirements as the ill-fated previous one if not more and I shine. Furthermore, sunny day is prejudice and sexist. They will never hire a male. Probably because they know a man won't sit there and smile and take the abuse. Basically don't waste your time with this job.
• Compensation: Pennies
PostingID: 1342630915
Response to RE: Sunny Day (CL)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-26, 9:04AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
I believe the term "online" is not yet considered a verb in the English language.
Nice try, darling, but if you are going to insult someone--for insulting someone--at least make sure you know how and when to conjugate verbs.
p.s. conjugate: –verb (used with object)
1. Grammar.
a. to inflect (a verb).
b. to recite or display all or some subsets of the inflected forms of (a verb), in a fixed order:
One conjugates the present tense of the verb “be” as “I am, you are, he is, we are, you are, they are.”
• Compensation: we use a barter system
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-26, 11:00AM CDT
Reply to: job-tpbum-1343244181@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
Good morning. I have learned from the past that each and every individual have different experiences than others. On a positive note, I was once an employee of Sunny Day Cafe and I am quite SHOCKED by the negative comments. I experienced something totally different. Whatever the problem is...I hope they can overcome ANY hurdles, if at all any. I've watched the postings and what I have viewed is a cat and mouse game. If you have had a good or bad experience with Sunny Day Cafe say what you're going to say and leave it alone. Anyone that post anything on craigslist have to verify their legal age 18 and over. So therefore, we are all adults. Please do not take this post as a NEGATIVE vibe. If you've had a BAD experience just SIMPLY move forward.
• Location: Kenner
• Compensation: Just a thought
PostingID: 1343244181
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
This posting has been flagged for removal
(The title on the listings page will be removed in just a few minutes.)
Customer Service/Barista (Kenner/St Rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-04, 9:51AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
Position is available immediately for the right candidate.
Must be Experienced. If you are not experienced in a full service capacity restaurant or coffee shop DO NOT APPLY!
Duties will include greeting & serving customers, taking orders, bagging orders to go. Barista Experience extremely helpful. Complete charge of the front of the house as well as assist at the end of the day with all clean up.etc....
Must be a friendly, courteous and a people person. This is not a job for the timid or shy. Must be a quick learner, quick on your feet and able to be on your feet all day and a team player.
This is a Mon - Fri Full Time Position 7 am - 3:30 pm.
Apply in person between 7 am - 10 am Mon - Friday at Sunny Day Cafe, 120 Mallard Street in the James Business Park on Airline. Business Park is located 1 mile past the Airport on Airline.
PLEASE NO PHONE CALLS OR E-MAILS!!!!!!!!!!!
PostingID: 1305140984
Prep Cook/Fry and Line Cook (Kenner/St Rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-10, 8:35AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
Full Time Monday through Friday days
Plan, prep, set up and provide quality service in all areas of food production for menu items. Maintain organization, re-stocking, cleanliness and sanitation of work areas and equipment.
Must be able to handle multiple orders and prepare top quality food, following portion sizes and keeping a clean environment. YOU MUST BE STRONG ON ALL STATIONS, WORK CLEAN & BE ABLE TO WORK ON MULTIPLE TICKETS AT THE SAME TIME WITH THE SAME PORTIONS AND QUALITY AT ALL TIMES
If you are reliable and hard working this position is FOR IMMEDIATE HIRE
If you can't keep a clean kitchen, if you don't care about food quality, IF YOU CAN’T GET TO WORK ON TIME AND EVERY DAY - please do not apply.
Apply in Person between 7 am - 10 am Mon-Fri at Sunny Day Cafe, 120 Mallard Street in the James Business Park on Airline. Business Park is located 1 mile past the Airport on Airline. Turn at the light at the Ramada Inn and follow road around to Mallard Street.
PLEASE NO PHONE CALLS OR E-MAILS!!
Re: Fat Hen sucks to work for
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 9:27AM CDT
Reply to: job-vxmna-1341255500@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
These owners have serious issues,you will not like working there. Don't waste your time!!
• Compensation: Bull shit!
PostingID: 1341255500
re: sunny day (st rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 7:37AM CDT
Reply to: job-68zmv-1341108621@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
I was recently there. I had a terrible experience. First you need to actual travel there only to fill out a generic application. It could easily made available for download.Then dropped off. While I was there the staff and owner or manager argued about standard operating procedures.After filling out an application I returned it for review.They placed my app. on a stack of other and didn't even my eye contact with me to when they said "thank you".Generally when you ask someone to come in to fill out a app. you give them the courtesy to site down with for 5 min.I could understand if they were busy,however they had one costumer.Please save your time and apply to real employers.Please to all that applied before please call and ask them to destroy your vital information 504-465-1331
• Location: st.rose
• Compensation: not worth your time
PostingID: 1341108621
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 6:02AM CDT
Reply to: job-gekk4-1341050439@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
this post has been on here for 3 - 6 months, i went there myself to talk to the man, willing to work FOH or BOH, i thought i had the job, but he didnot call me back, for a posting to be on here for so long, it must be a no brainer, the man will not give the job to someone unlees there are the same as him, and has to kow how to be perfect.
• Location: st rose
• Compensation: 1
PostingID: 1341050439
RE: Sunny Day Cafe
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-25, 10:37PM CDT
Reply to: job-u3sva-1342630915@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
...These people are horrible employers and terribly inconsiderate people who could even be construed as abusive. I really feel that in some way it is almost a sadistic venture for the husband and wife owners to bring in pretty, young women and beat them down verbally and emotionally. I have never ever been viewed as anything less than a model employee EVER. I'm punctual, polite, and diligent. They don't train you at all, throw a lot of information at you and berate you when you don't succeed which only makes you feel worse and thus flounder more. I have never felt so awful my first day of work EVER. And I have worked some *&!? jobs. These people actually gave silent treatments when not pleased with you and verbally attacked my intelligence and ability to learn when I had barely been there a few hours. It was a terrible experience. They let me come in my fourth day and then fired me after I got there for being "ditzy" and saying I wasn't catching on fast enough. They knew they didn't want me right off I could tell but they couldn't be bothered to have the decency to spare me the traveling in the rain just to be further insulted. As far as being ditzy, as I am sure you might wonder if perhaps there was a reason for my treatment. I can assure you there is none. I am very intelligent and well mannered. I got another job within 24 hours of this unfortunate experience and am doing very well. This job involves as much or more of the skills and requirements as the ill-fated previous one if not more and I shine. Furthermore, sunny day is prejudice and sexist. They will never hire a male. Probably because they know a man won't sit there and smile and take the abuse. Basically don't waste your time with this job.
• Compensation: Pennies
PostingID: 1342630915
Response to RE: Sunny Day (CL)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-26, 9:04AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
I believe the term "online" is not yet considered a verb in the English language.
Nice try, darling, but if you are going to insult someone--for insulting someone--at least make sure you know how and when to conjugate verbs.
p.s. conjugate: –verb (used with object)
1. Grammar.
a. to inflect (a verb).
b. to recite or display all or some subsets of the inflected forms of (a verb), in a fixed order:
One conjugates the present tense of the verb “be” as “I am, you are, he is, we are, you are, they are.”
• Compensation: we use a barter system
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-26, 11:00AM CDT
Reply to: job-tpbum-1343244181@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
________________________________________
Good morning. I have learned from the past that each and every individual have different experiences than others. On a positive note, I was once an employee of Sunny Day Cafe and I am quite SHOCKED by the negative comments. I experienced something totally different. Whatever the problem is...I hope they can overcome ANY hurdles, if at all any. I've watched the postings and what I have viewed is a cat and mouse game. If you have had a good or bad experience with Sunny Day Cafe say what you're going to say and leave it alone. Anyone that post anything on craigslist have to verify their legal age 18 and over. So therefore, we are all adults. Please do not take this post as a NEGATIVE vibe. If you've had a BAD experience just SIMPLY move forward.
• Location: Kenner
• Compensation: Just a thought
PostingID: 1343244181
RE:sunnyday (st.rose)
This posting has been flagged for removal
(The title on the listings page will be removed in just a few minutes.)
Customer Service/Barista (Kenner/St Rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-04, 9:51AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
Position is available immediately for the right candidate.
Must be Experienced. If you are not experienced in a full service capacity restaurant or coffee shop DO NOT APPLY!
Duties will include greeting & serving customers, taking orders, bagging orders to go. Barista Experience extremely helpful. Complete charge of the front of the house as well as assist at the end of the day with all clean up.etc....
Must be a friendly, courteous and a people person. This is not a job for the timid or shy. Must be a quick learner, quick on your feet and able to be on your feet all day and a team player.
This is a Mon - Fri Full Time Position 7 am - 3:30 pm.
Apply in person between 7 am - 10 am Mon - Friday at Sunny Day Cafe, 120 Mallard Street in the James Business Park on Airline. Business Park is located 1 mile past the Airport on Airline.
PLEASE NO PHONE CALLS OR E-MAILS!!!!!!!!!!!
PostingID: 1305140984
Prep Cook/Fry and Line Cook (Kenner/St Rose)
________________________________________
Date: 2009-08-10, 8:35AM CDT
Reply to: see below
________________________________________
Full Time Monday through Friday days
Plan, prep, set up and provide quality service in all areas of food production for menu items. Maintain organization, re-stocking, cleanliness and sanitation of work areas and equipment.
Must be able to handle multiple orders and prepare top quality food, following portion sizes and keeping a clean environment. YOU MUST BE STRONG ON ALL STATIONS, WORK CLEAN & BE ABLE TO WORK ON MULTIPLE TICKETS AT THE SAME TIME WITH THE SAME PORTIONS AND QUALITY AT ALL TIMES
If you are reliable and hard working this position is FOR IMMEDIATE HIRE
If you can't keep a clean kitchen, if you don't care about food quality, IF YOU CAN’T GET TO WORK ON TIME AND EVERY DAY - please do not apply.
Apply in Person between 7 am - 10 am Mon-Fri at Sunny Day Cafe, 120 Mallard Street in the James Business Park on Airline. Business Park is located 1 mile past the Airport on Airline. Turn at the light at the Ramada Inn and follow road around to Mallard Street.
PLEASE NO PHONE CALLS OR E-MAILS!!
Sacrifices
After a long and spirited conversation (I am ever so grateful she tolerates my interruptions and tendency to just talk over people when I get excited) with my bff I was sharply reminded about how few sacrifices I truly make these days. Sure I gave up the tv but I have a laptop so there’s always hulu; I gave away/sold/abandoned several of my things in our venture down; I spend less on booze and eating out than I used to (which isn’t to say that it's less than what most folks spend) – but what, really, am I sacrificing? Truth be told, the only sacrifices I’ve made are the ones that include detriments to my health, weight, and appearance.
Actually, I did give up one thing: smoking. I have successfully quit for several months now. I prefer not to count the days or remember the anniversary – kind of like the anniversary between me and my sweets - honestly; it’s one less thing to keep track of one less thing to be mad @ him for.
It does, however, beg the question: does a sacrifice have to be painful? Because I am a goofy dumb-ass I had to look it up.
sac•ri•fice (s k r -f s )
1. a. The act of offering something to a deity in propitiation or homage,
especially the ritual slaughter of an animal or a person.
b. A victim offered in this way.
2. a. Forfeiture of something highly valued for the sake of one considered to have a
greater value or claim.
b. Something so forfeited.
3. a. Relinquishment of something at less than its presumed value.
b. Something so relinquished.
c. A loss so sustained.
Yup, sounds pretty painful to me.
Back in the day-- my much younger days—there were several sacrifices but most were out of necessity. Or happened because I was flat broke: like having to choose between purchasing food or buying cigarettes (cigs almost always won by the way). That said, I still managed to scrape up enough cash to go to Europe, to buy the occasional new dress, to purchase boxes of red hair dye . . . Sure I ate and drank less; sure I was occasionally hungry, but what do I sacrifice today?
There are a few things that come to mind. Things I gave up to be here in New Orleans: my friends, new clothes/shoes, stuff in general, haircuts, my sanity (well, maybe I already lost that),the familiar . . . all in pursuit of something different, something new, for an adventure . . . but were those sacrifices enough?
It is hard for me to find a balance, to be focused these days and without knowing exactly what I want and what goals there are it seems, perhaps, less compelling to give up more for some undefined goal in the future. I do know – for a lot of reasons – I have to start making some sacrifices, something more significant for my betterment. Now I just have to figure out what those are.
Actually, I did give up one thing: smoking. I have successfully quit for several months now. I prefer not to count the days or remember the anniversary – kind of like the anniversary between me and my sweets - honestly; it’s one less thing to keep track of one less thing to be mad @ him for.
It does, however, beg the question: does a sacrifice have to be painful? Because I am a goofy dumb-ass I had to look it up.
sac•ri•fice (s k r -f s )
1. a. The act of offering something to a deity in propitiation or homage,
especially the ritual slaughter of an animal or a person.
b. A victim offered in this way.
2. a. Forfeiture of something highly valued for the sake of one considered to have a
greater value or claim.
b. Something so forfeited.
3. a. Relinquishment of something at less than its presumed value.
b. Something so relinquished.
c. A loss so sustained.
Yup, sounds pretty painful to me.
Back in the day-- my much younger days—there were several sacrifices but most were out of necessity. Or happened because I was flat broke: like having to choose between purchasing food or buying cigarettes (cigs almost always won by the way). That said, I still managed to scrape up enough cash to go to Europe, to buy the occasional new dress, to purchase boxes of red hair dye . . . Sure I ate and drank less; sure I was occasionally hungry, but what do I sacrifice today?
There are a few things that come to mind. Things I gave up to be here in New Orleans: my friends, new clothes/shoes, stuff in general, haircuts, my sanity (well, maybe I already lost that),the familiar . . . all in pursuit of something different, something new, for an adventure . . . but were those sacrifices enough?
It is hard for me to find a balance, to be focused these days and without knowing exactly what I want and what goals there are it seems, perhaps, less compelling to give up more for some undefined goal in the future. I do know – for a lot of reasons – I have to start making some sacrifices, something more significant for my betterment. Now I just have to figure out what those are.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Stupids Are All Over
Having been in New Orleans for about 2 months now I am convinced the “special” people are always referring to when they talk about NOLA is the kind that includes a short bus and a helmet. To say that the folks are hillbilly dip-shits and the practices of the deep-south are fucking stupid is a god damn understatement. While the options are numerous I’ve isolated a few of the top contenders.
The Service Despite being known as a food destination of sorts (and don’t even get me going about how bad and out-dated some of the food is) I think someone failed to notify management to accompany said good food with good service. In my short time here I have seen managers neglect the appearance of the establishment (floors so gross you actually stick to them, general managers who are often actually the chefs, walk into kitchens smoking while mopping their sweaty face with the same towels they proceed to wash the tables with – if they wash them at all). I’ve watched while entire restaurants remain un-cleared for hours on end, guests go ignored upon entry, hosts swat at roaches with the very menus they hand you, hell, I had one server finish her shift in the middle of our meal with no replacement while another bitched us and fellow staffers out for no other reason than for their own amusement. My service snafu du jour is one we experienced recently at an Indian restaurant in Uptown.
Upon arrival we were begrudgingly greeted by a server as we seated ourselves wherein he huffed “buffet only.” I don’t do buffets. As we got up to leave the server said “Oh, fine. Here’s a menu. Hurry up.” That should have been cause enough to leave but, no, we stayed. We had to practically beg for service while the 4 servers were too busy leaning against the bar to be bothered actually serving anyone. It seemed we were the only ones to order from the menu presumably because no one knew there was even an option. The other guests fetched and cleared their own plates and occasionally someone would be by to refill waters. More than that however, the few exchanges that were to be had between staff and customers were done in such an apathetic, rude manner, it was a wonder they were even still in business. In fact, the only time they moved with any gusto was when they cleared the table. That is they swooped in and pulled the butcher paper, beverages, and haggled over the 1$ tip (bill was only 8$ cuz we decided to leave after 2 aps) while we were still at the table. But that’s not even the “special part.” As we went to leave we noticed a guest book near the front of the door that had a litany of service complaints written in it. Instead of removing the book, editing the pages, or, I don’t know, maybe actually addressing any of the service issues they instead wrote responses to each of the complaints. The same tiny cursive handwritten message followed each assertion of bad service. Pages of “good food but bad service” were met with the same passive aggressive retort; some pretending to be other customers while others were written from the perspective of the staff.
The Roads One might think roadwork in Minnesota is arduous but at least they actually do the work up north. There are holes so big you could fall into them and the patch work causes more damage to your vehicle than the issue they supposedly covered. They’ll begin a massive road project on a main thoroughfare on a busy Saturday afternoon and then not return to it for weeks. They have a series of one ways all going the same way for blocks (oh and the one-ways sometimes change directions – still a one-way but now going the other direction), street signs are not there, arrows are posted the wrong direction, some stop signs are on the left side of the street, walk signs are upside down, you can’t turn left (instead you have to go down a block or more and do a u-turn) and the way some streets are designed you’d think they outsourced it to the St. Paul Irish.
The Drivers Bad roads are all the worse when you add in the atrocious drivers. Not just bad, they are the worst I’ve ever seen. Driving, it seems, is the only thing here they do fast – not just fast but reckless. The monstrously oversized SUV cabs bomb down the narrow streets of the quarter and blast their horns as if you were doing them a personal disfavor being on the roads yourself. They speed and yell and god help you if you’re on foot, bike, or scoot – they just don’t see you. They don’t yield or stop either. Stop signs, as it seems, aren’t seen either or, rather, probably just ignored. In fact most drivers fail to stop instead favoring the “California roll,” a half pause-part yield that occurs about mid-intersection. Honking is recreational, using turn signals are unheard of, lights are optional and drunk driving is required. The latter two we discovered personally the other night as we were nearly run over by a clearly intoxicated driver without lights as he rolled through the intersection going the wrong way on a one-way street. All this, by the way, occurred at the intersection in front of the French Quarter police station.
We saw this particular asshole a few times bobbing through the quarter before we crossed paths again a few blocks later. This time, like the last, it was a near miss and J started his spitting, yelling, hand gesture, man-tantrum routine. (This, to be noted, is an exercise in futility because they didn’t notice you when they ran you off the road and don’t notice you damning them to hell shortly thereafter. Some of the pedestrians get a kick out of it though.) Anyway, on this fine occasion the driver did notice. He pulled up right next to our moving scooter, rolled down the window and scavenged in his passenger seat for what we thought for certain was going to be a gun; we weren’t far off (neither was the gun). The slurring, squinty eyed driver places a cops cap on his head asks accusatively if we had a problem. “I didn’t think so,” he mumbles as he takes a pull from the can of beer tucked “discretely” into a paper bag, runs a red and rolls into the CBD.
The Crime Corruption is a word almost synonymous with NOLA but the crooks are as “special” as everyone else here. Their acts of crime and corruption are as often as dumb as the crooks that accompany them. While the list of acts are countless, in our short time here $150,000 “accidentally” fell-out the back of an armored car, several hundreds of thousands of dollars were found in the freezer of a local politician (now nearly every member of his family have been indicted), and several new yet unmarked cop cars were taken from the lot – driven off with the very keys delivered to the office manager just the day before. Oh, and the arrest of a Nazi skinhead was quite amusing. It was a nice touch watching the white officer slam his head into the car (another “accident” I presume) while the idiot spewed all sorts of hate speech and accusations. But my favorite, thus far, is the story I was told by a neighbor while we were watching the neighborhood boys wallop a purse snatcher. She explained that during a recent purse-snatching incident herself, a Good Samaritan came to her rescue and, subsequently, stole the bag himself.
The Tourists Before I go and blame all the idiocy on the locals let’s be clear: the tourists are equally and confoundedly fucking dumb. Alongside the locals, they over-drink, drive badly, and misbehave - all the time! Among the top of my list of dumb-ass behavior: the beads – hey fuck head it isn’t Mardi Gras, feather boas and bad hats are never a good idea or flattering choice (not to mention they make you a mark), whoopin’ and hollerin’ for no reason is simply annoying (especially the white folks, you know who you are!) and lame. I am not amused when you run in front of me, stick your ass in front of my moving bike, nor do I want to show you my tits. And the photo taking... It's not that I don't take pictures, I always have a camera, but do you really think you’re gonna snap some shot that hasn’t already been seen a million times? Do you really have to keep taking my picture? That blurry-blob flipping you off in the corner of your “inspired” shit is me, ya fuck. Try to consider where you’re pointing that thing, will ya?
Hey, public puking and urination is not OK but the one thing I’m most confused by is why do you have to sit on my stoop? I see this all the time. Strangers -- locals and visitors alike -- plop their big, ugly, drunk-ass down on someone else’s porch. Would you rest/sleep /pass-out/party/puke/picnic/hang-out on your neighbor’s porch back home? No? Well then don’t do it here. Hey, ya fuckers – people live here so go fuck/fight/piss or whatever in the doorway of your hotel room.
Don’t get me wrong, there are many interesting things to do and see here in NOLA. With only 2 months under my belt I’m sure to find more, but in addition to all of the good things there are a hell of a lot of bad, stupid, inexplicable shit that cause me to scratch my head and ask why? Before I start to go off again on the myriad of totally ridiculous things that are NOLA I should take a look at myself and ask what the hell prompted me to get on the short bus for the long ride to the deep-south.
A FEW OTHERS:
• Marble mouth
• Few to no computers in city hall. It was explained that they had been doing things the “old-fashion way” for so long they didn’t see a need to allocate the funds. The 1 hour and forty-five minutes it took one 500 pound government official to process jut one permit dictates otherwise.
• Card catalogues at the library.
• References at the library (ex, 13 year out dated tenant rights reference with missing pages).
• The gentleman’s puddle test; this southern hospitality thing is a myth. Sort of like Minnesota nice.
• A glut gutter punks
• Moldy people
• Hipster doofus galore (ex, the mailman in capris or the bald man with the tiny ponytail)
• Shit, everyone’s practically a cliché – every group represented
• Throw your garbage anywhere
• Give me a dolla
• The markets “They were horrible before (K) but now they’re just bad.”
• The rain puddles are more like piss, puke, or chemicals.
• Mumilard DJs that play the fucking records on the wrong speed.
• No one pulls over for the ambulance, fire trucks or cops.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Why does sobriety always start with a hang over?
The day started well enough with some weird declaration that I wasn’t going to drink today. No real reason other than my efforts to be economical backfired – I bought the gallon jug of vodka because it is a better price but all it seemed to do was promote more drinking. That said I headed out the door to hit the coffee shop.
I make a point of reading every day, typically at some coffee house. Today was no different except that I returned to one I had sworn off. After boycotting for a few weeks, I decided to go back to my beloved Envie despite yelling at the coffee dude the last time I was there. Seriously, he is a fucking moron. The dumb-asses there don’t like making the friggin’ frappe I always order so they just tell folks they’re out. Out of what, I’d like to know? Out of your dumb fucking mind? (Like yesterday they, the coffee house, “ran out” of iced coffee. Are you fucking kidding me here?) So I tell the guy off . . . he actually comes out of the place after me and states, “I don’t even know you. It’s not personal.”
“I know it’s not personal,” I tell him, “its laziness. You just don’t like making it.” Fucking idiots there are always turning away money. I mean customers.
Anyway, that’s not really my point here so hang in there. So I get my delicious coffee, read and after coffee, the man and I head to Satchamo fest for some eats and music. And where’s our first stop? Why, the margarita booth of course. Mmmm , it was so refreshing. And that’s where it started. The drinking that is.
Close to home and broke ass broke we do the responsible thing: make our own drinks and bring them back to the festival. The music’s great but my favorite of the day was this band of kids in high school. I just get such a kick out of street performers. It’s defiantly one aspect of the city that I love.
AJ stops by for a few drinks and, of course, the drinking continues through the night. Some drunk facebooking, more music, a few more drinks and out comes the gorilla suit. If my neighbors didn’t think we were weird before this, they certainly do now: spot lights, camera and the gorilla photo shoot commences on the front porch. Keep in mind we have an entire back yard with privacy fences and everything but the front stoop, I guess, just seemed more appropriate. A few digitals and an entire roll of black and white 110 (which I’m pretty sure I forgot to take the cap off of so there’s a whole wasted roll of film.)
Who knows what time it was when I finally hit the sack. I do know the man didn’t get around to feeding me so I’m certain that didn’t help the situation. But when I woke up at 7:30, and 10:30, and 12:30 (all little test runs to see if I could move yet; I couldn’t) I was soooo hung over. HUNG OVER!
As I lie there, wishing my head wasn’t pounding, I think maybe I won’t drink today? Of course, I said that yesterday and you can see how well that worked out for me.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
What, a girl can't call a spade a spade or a moron a moron?
* You can double click on the cartoon so you can ACTUALLY read it. It made my day. 
OK, so I finally did it. For better or worse. Here it is. This is what started it (finally):
Re: What, a girl can't call a spade a spade or a moron a moron?
Sent: Sun 7/26/09 3:26 PM
To: Rocket
From: M
Who knows, could be the MN morons too. Not everyone up here is so bright, you know. By the way, the rant about J and the phone is funny. Maybe that should be the opener to your blog. Don’t give him access. LOL
On 7/26/09 3:09 PM, Rocket wrote:
To: M
From: Rocket
There should have been 2 postcards. They can't get anything right down here. lol. Morons
Date: Sun, 26 Jul 2009 12:43:40 -0500
To: Rocket
From: M
You are so damn funny. I’m glad you’re doing some of the things you love. Got another postcard from you the other day. The horse is my boyfriend! Hilarious.
On 7/25/09 10:56 PM, Rocket wrote:
Me, what am I doing? Not enough but I am gardening, drawing, reading, writing... I've been working on a few articles for this NOLA Green site. Their market / green situation is appalling. My mom's been stirring the pot. J's a fucking pisser. Despite all I actually feel pretty good and am just plodding along trying to ignore my Martha Stewart tendencies. I need to function in the apartment and getting closer by the day - tho not quickly enough.
Date: Sat, 25 Jul 2009 21:41:08 -0500
From: M:
To: Rocket
now I know what J’s doing, what are you doing?(Please forgive me, but I’m only asking that because I love you. . . )
On 7/25/09 4:35 PM, Rocket wrote:
No, no I have yet to set up a blog. Maybe I can't sit down long enough or maybe I can't find the right picture. Or maybe it's that while sitting on the back of a scooter floods of hilarious thoughts come pouring to the forefront of my mind and once I actually get to the coffee shop I can't think of anything to say. Nothing except for maybe, "Shut the fuck up" cuz j just babbles constantly. Seriously, a little more action and a little less talka talka. ( Even when he's not there I find myself uttering those words.)
J's at the third establishment for which he's staged. Today's is Flynn's or some shit. Best New Orleans seafood 2009. Coincidentally the owner/chef is the fucking dirty slob who lived here before us. It's a small place. Maybe I should stop give peeps the evil eye. Anyhoo. J went running off late as usual but this time it was because we had to go searching for his phone. He left -- fucking left -- his new 200$ I-phone on the bench of the world's lamest farmers market in Algiers. That's right, on the other fucking side of the river. His first words on the ferry (after we've already paid) we're , "Where's my phone?" like I did something with it. And then he just comes out and asks if I took his phone out of his pocket - like, duh, you wouldn't notice someone digging in your pockets while riding on the fucking scooter. Once it's found, he alleges it "fell out." Neatly falling, I presume, onto the bench where he had sat it 45 minutes prior. "Why would I do that?" he asserts.
"Because you're stupid."
Re: What, a girl can't call a spade a spade or a moron a moron?
Sent: Sun 7/26/09 3:26 PM
To: Rocket
From: M
Who knows, could be the MN morons too. Not everyone up here is so bright, you know. By the way, the rant about J and the phone is funny. Maybe that should be the opener to your blog. Don’t give him access. LOL
On 7/26/09 3:09 PM, Rocket wrote:
To: M
From: Rocket
There should have been 2 postcards. They can't get anything right down here. lol. Morons
Date: Sun, 26 Jul 2009 12:43:40 -0500
To: Rocket
From: M
You are so damn funny. I’m glad you’re doing some of the things you love. Got another postcard from you the other day. The horse is my boyfriend! Hilarious.
On 7/25/09 10:56 PM, Rocket wrote:
Me, what am I doing? Not enough but I am gardening, drawing, reading, writing... I've been working on a few articles for this NOLA Green site. Their market / green situation is appalling. My mom's been stirring the pot. J's a fucking pisser. Despite all I actually feel pretty good and am just plodding along trying to ignore my Martha Stewart tendencies. I need to function in the apartment and getting closer by the day - tho not quickly enough.
Date: Sat, 25 Jul 2009 21:41:08 -0500
From: M:
To: Rocket
now I know what J’s doing, what are you doing?(Please forgive me, but I’m only asking that because I love you. . . )
On 7/25/09 4:35 PM, Rocket wrote:
No, no I have yet to set up a blog. Maybe I can't sit down long enough or maybe I can't find the right picture. Or maybe it's that while sitting on the back of a scooter floods of hilarious thoughts come pouring to the forefront of my mind and once I actually get to the coffee shop I can't think of anything to say. Nothing except for maybe, "Shut the fuck up" cuz j just babbles constantly. Seriously, a little more action and a little less talka talka. ( Even when he's not there I find myself uttering those words.)
J's at the third establishment for which he's staged. Today's is Flynn's or some shit. Best New Orleans seafood 2009. Coincidentally the owner/chef is the fucking dirty slob who lived here before us. It's a small place. Maybe I should stop give peeps the evil eye. Anyhoo. J went running off late as usual but this time it was because we had to go searching for his phone. He left -- fucking left -- his new 200$ I-phone on the bench of the world's lamest farmers market in Algiers. That's right, on the other fucking side of the river. His first words on the ferry (after we've already paid) we're , "Where's my phone?" like I did something with it. And then he just comes out and asks if I took his phone out of his pocket - like, duh, you wouldn't notice someone digging in your pockets while riding on the fucking scooter. Once it's found, he alleges it "fell out." Neatly falling, I presume, onto the bench where he had sat it 45 minutes prior. "Why would I do that?" he asserts.
"Because you're stupid."
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